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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
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 L161— O-1096
 
 AG-I^ES 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ^^3 
 
 AGNES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. L I P H A N T, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 THE LIFE OF EDWARD IRVING," 
 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AISTD BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBUEN, 
 
 13, GEEAT MAELBOKOUGH STREET, 
 
 1866. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 lONDON : 
 
 SAVILL AND BDWAEDS, PBINTEHS, CHAITDOS fiXEEET, 
 
 COVKNT GAEDBN.
 
 ^^3 
 
 ^,1 ^ 
 
 AVHEN I PLACE THIS BOOK UNDER YOTJR INVOCATION, 
 MY DEAR ELLEN, 
 
 IT IS TO ONE or THE HAPPIEST OF WOMEN 
 
 C^at I |n$crib 
 
 THE STOEY OF A SAD WOMAN's LIFE; 
 
 BUT THERE IS NOTHING IN IT THAT WILL HARII YOU, 
 
 ANY MORE THAN IN THE 
 
 TRUE AND WARM AFFECTION WITH WHICH, 
 
 FROM THE DARKER SIDE OF LIFE, 
 
 I OFFER IT TO YOU 
 
 WHO ARE IN THE LIGHT. 
 
 
 4
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/agnes01oliph
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 T is a shabby expedient to begin a 
 novel ^itb a theory ; but it may, 
 perhaps, be excused on the plea that 
 the novel has not been constructed 
 to suit the theory, though the author feels herself 
 justified in making use of one to account for her 
 work. It has always been my opinion that, as 
 the great value of fiction lies in its power of 
 delineating life, there may be cases in which it 
 may assume to a certain extent the form of 
 biography : I do not mean of autobiography, 
 which is sufficiently common in novels ; but that 
 the writer of fiction may occasionally be per- 
 mitted to supplement the work of the serious 
 biographer — to depict scenes which never could 
 be depicted as happening to any actual indi-
 
 viii Preface, 
 
 vidualj and to reveal sentiments whicli may be 
 in many minds^ but which none wonld care in 
 tbeir own person to give expression to. I do 
 not believe tbat there ever was_, or could be^ in 
 this world, a wholly true, candid, and unreserved 
 biography, revealing all the dispositions, or even, 
 without exception, all the facts of any existence. 
 Indeed, the thing is next to impossible : since, in 
 that case, the subject of the biography must be a 
 man or woman without reserve, without delicacy, 
 and without those secrets which are inevitable even 
 to the most stainless spirit. Even fiction itself, 
 which is less responsible, can in many instances 
 only skim the surface of the real. Most people 
 must be aware, in their own experience, that of 
 those passages of their lives which have afiected 
 them most they could give only the baldest de- 
 scription to their friends ; and that their saddest 
 and supremest moments are hidden by instinct 
 in their own hearts, and never find any ex- 
 pression. It is only in the region of pure 
 invention and imagination that the artist can 
 find a model who has no secrets from him, but 
 lies all open and disclosed to his investigation.
 
 Preface. ix 
 
 Life thus taken up in its general course is^ no 
 doubt^ full of broken threads and illogical con- 
 clusions^ and lacks altogether the unity of the 
 regularly constructed fiction^ which confines 
 itself to the gracefid task of conducting two vir- 
 tuous young persons through a labyrinth of 
 difficulties to a happy marriage. I am far from 
 despising the instinct which confines the art of 
 story- telling within these limits^ but think it^ on 
 the contrary ;, as wise as it is natural; yet at 
 the same time everybody knows that there 
 are many lives which only begin after that 
 first fair chapter of youthful existence is com- 
 pleted ; as also that there are many more which 
 end,, so far as there is any interest or vitality in 
 them^ before the other great conclusion which 
 finishes all^ so far as human vision goes. I will 
 not say that the following Story has been written 
 to carry out such a theory, which would not be 
 true. It has grown out of much more natural 
 and less premeditated causes ; but that this theory 
 is one which may justify the story ; and as such 
 I leave it in the reader^s hands. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say that such a
 
 X Preface. 
 
 theory forbids in the strong^t manner any 
 transcript from actual life^ or exploitation of any 
 indi\ddual story. Such an expedient, which I 
 hold to be utterly unjustifiable in any case, 
 would be at once dishonourable and foolish in 
 this. So far as Art is concerned,, I do not 
 think that Truth, for her support, has any need 
 of Fact. 
 
 M. O. W. O.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 I. WILLIAM STANFIELD 1 
 
 IL THE STEPMOTHER J-j. 
 
 III. AGNES 23 
 
 IV. THE blacksmith's WALK 40 
 
 V. THE HALL 59 
 
 VL BEATRICE 72 
 
 VIL AFTER DINNER §3 
 
 VIII. THE blacksmith's RESOLUTION .... 92 
 
 IX. BY CHANCE 104 
 
 X. THE blacksmith's DEFEAT . . . . 113 
 
 XL PLIGHTING TROTH 123 
 
 Xn. HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD 139 
 
 XIII. HOW IT WAS RECEIVED 154
 
 xii Contents. 
 
 CHAP, PAGB 
 
 XIV. THE EFFORTS OF THE FAMILY .... 169 
 
 XV. A DOMESTIC TRAITOR 186 
 
 XVI. THE FATHER AND THE LOVER .... 202 
 XVIL THE BLACKSMITH AND THE GENTLEMAN . 213 
 
 XVIII. MRS. FREKe's ADVICE 227 
 
 XIX. HER SHARE 243 
 
 XX. END OF THE STRUGGLE 253 
 
 XXL THE MARRIAGE 2QQ 
 
 XXIL THE WEDDING TOUR 280 
 
 XXIII. THE FIRST STEP 293
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 William Stanfield. 
 
 XM not one to waste words^ nor 
 to argue with them as shuts their 
 ears; but if she was my girl, I 
 wouldn^t have her sitting there 
 decked up, waiting for the young squire, not if 
 you was to gi^'e me a hundred pounds ; and so 
 I tell you, master, for your own sake and hers 
 both, though she never was more than civil to 
 me." 
 
 '^Decked up?" said William Stanfield. He 
 lifted his mild large eyes upon his wife with 
 a half- wondering tolerant calm. She was angiy; 
 she could not comprehend the real state of 
 afikirs. The blacksmith himself was slow to 
 wrath and of a composed and steady nature. 
 Even though his daughter was the apple of his 
 eye, he could make excuses for her stepmother. 
 He showed nothing but surprise in the lifting of 
 those large soft brown eyes, which were calm, and 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 Agnes, 
 
 open, and nnfatliomable like those of the ox- 
 eyed Juno. " Decked up ?" he repeated the 
 Tvords with an inquiring glance. 
 
 " Well !" said the woman, mtli a little defi- 
 ance, " she never is dressed what I call according 
 to her rank in life ; but to see her a-sitting up 
 there in the parlour, with her nice collars and 
 cuffs, a pair every day, and a bit o' nice needle- 
 work, and her hair brushed till if s like a looking- 
 glass, is more than enough for my patience ; — just 
 as a gentleman likes to find her, that is ; if 
 she was stirring about and helping me work, 
 mth a nice print apron and a tidy cap, it would 
 be long enough before young Ti-evelyan would have 
 looked the side of the road she was on." 
 
 " Meaning Agnes ?" said the blacksmith, with 
 a momentary lifting of his ej^ebrows and a smile. 
 " Well, I don't think it's the collars and the cuffs 
 exactly; — but never mind, Sally, Fll take care of 
 the child. Young Trevelyan is a bit of a goose, 
 between you and me. Agnes would not give 
 twopence for him, or any like him. You don't 
 know her yet, my dear." 
 
 " DonH I know her ? and all her sort — sly 
 puss I" cried the enraged Mrs. Stanfield ; ^' mark 
 my words, master, or you'll be took in and brought 
 to shame. Agnes wouldn't mind the seriousest word 
 you could say to her as much as she minds the light
 
 William Stanfield. 3 
 
 looks of the young squire. Whatever he says, 
 that's gospel; whatever he likes, she likes. 
 It's not as I mean there's anything bad in the 
 girl/' continued the stepmother, seeing her hus- 
 band's face darken, '' it's nature, that's what it is 
 — she's young and he's handsome, and has nicer 
 manners than folks in her own class of life ; — and 
 then he's a gentleman and Avould make a lady of 
 her " 
 
 " Stop there — I might get angry before I 
 knew it," said William Stanfield. " Stop there 
 — I tell you, SaUy, you know no more about my 
 
 Agnes But never mind; j^ou've done your 
 
 duty in warning me — and don't you be afraid but 
 I'll take care of my child." 
 
 " If it hadn't been for your fancy to keep her 
 in your own hands — as if a man was more likely 
 to understand a girl's vagaries than one as was 
 a mother herself — I'd have spoken then and 
 there," said the stepmother, " but I've always 
 give in to you, master, as you know. You 
 married me out of kindness, to give me an 'ome 
 — and I'm not ungrateful to fly in your face, nor 
 go against you. I'm only telling you just to 
 mind, or, mark my words, you'll be took in and 
 brought to shame." 
 
 " Brought to ? what word was that you 
 
 said ?" said the blacksmith, fixing upon her his 
 b2
 
 4 * Agnes. 
 
 broad brown eves. There was a momentary 
 flash of indignation in those orbs^ bnt no rage or 
 violence — yet the voluble wife quailed before 
 them. She grew silent at once^ trembled, put 
 her apron to her eyes — sobbed that she did not 
 mean anything. Then the gleam which had for 
 the instant thrown what almost seemed a red 
 light over his face died out of William StanfiekVs 
 steady looks. He said quietly " I am busy/^ and 
 w^ent into the smithy, at the door of which they 
 had been standing. His wife, with a demeanour 
 much subdued and softened, withdrew also, crossing 
 the yard of the forge towards a very clean outer 
 stair, which led up to the house. The black- 
 smith of Windholm had a large business, being 
 w^ell known and much respected in the country. 
 His house fronted to the High Street, close upon 
 the green. The entrance to the forge was by a 
 low archway, over which were the kitchen and 
 parlour of his habitation ; opening from the arch- 
 way were some store-rooms, where the black- 
 smith kept sundry articles of his OAvn and some 
 of other people^ s ; — so that his house was entirely 
 above, and could be entered only by that open 
 outer stair, clean as sand and scrubbing could 
 make it, by which his wife now returned, cowed 
 and put down, to mind her own business and see 
 "vvhat Agnes might be about.
 
 Wimam Stanfield. 5 
 
 William Stanfield^ the blacksmitli of Windliolm, 
 "W'as perhaps of all the men in the village the 
 most respected and looked up to. He was well- 
 to-do^ Avhich of course had some share in the 
 general regard^ and had come of people well-to- 
 do from the third or fourth generation. The 
 clergyman himself was not a greater authority 
 in the parish. It was not that his sagacity was 
 extraordinary^ for he had been deceived now and 
 then like other people_, and had never concealed 
 the fact; — nor that he was clever above his neigh- 
 bourS; for the public of Windholm was thoroughlj^ 
 aware that to get the "rights^' of any business fairly 
 into William StanfiekVs head, required a degree 
 of perseverance and patience difficult to attain ; 
 especially in regard to all kinds of chicanery, 
 tricks, and meanness, nothing could exceed the 
 obtusity of the blacksmiths intellect— and he 
 nowise prided himself upon his powers of mind, 
 or indeed upon any poAvers whatever, though he 
 had a gratified half-consciousness of his own 
 influence in the little community. His strength, 
 however, lay, not in his talents but in his cha- 
 racter. He was the sublimated honest man, 
 brave homme, galantuomo, of Windholm. In him 
 the transparency, the manful singlemindedness and 
 pure honour of an ideal Englishman had attained 
 realization. There was nobody Avithin twenty
 
 6 Agnes. 
 
 miles^ good or bad^ avIio would not liave trusted 
 house or laud, widow or orpliaii_, to William 
 Stanfield with the most utter certainty of his 
 truth to the trust. No squire or gentleman of 
 the district came within a hundred miles of him 
 in this respect. To doubt the blacksmith Avould 
 have been the same as to doubt whether the 
 pillars of earth stood fast, had any daring sceptic 
 ventured on such a notion ; but no such infidel 
 had ever yet appeared at Windholm. He was 
 slow in many things, this worthiest man of the 
 village — above all slow to wrath, all but imper- 
 vious to suspicion, slow to believe anything that 
 it was sliame or sorrow to hear of. The mild 
 broad light of his eyes scarcely ever quickened 
 out of that repose and tranquillity which made 
 you think instinctively of the large, silent, un- 
 speakable orbs in some dumb creature^s face, 
 and of the grand ox-eyes of the heathen- 
 queen of heaven. His, too, were ox-eyes — 
 large, soft, brown, impenetrable, full of a silent 
 thoughtfulness, that never found expression ex- 
 cept in that good life which was more eloquent, 
 a thousand times, than any words. Had Paul 
 and Barnabas been afloat on the world in our 
 day, they would have been brought unani- 
 mously, by universal consent of the crowd, to 
 William Stanfield^s door, had they gone to
 
 William Stanfield. 7 
 
 Windliolm — whose house being -worthy,, they 
 Tvould not have departed from Avhile they remained 
 in the place — who -would have washed their feet 
 and spread their board, and listened with 
 reverence and candour but slow conviction, 
 saying little while the Divine message worked 
 slowly in his heart. But he was a man of little 
 book-learning, no reading to speak of, and alto- 
 gether of an unintellectual development ; though 
 there were thoughts in him such as few have — 
 delicacies which few people understood — and a 
 certain poetic element in the worth which was 
 so practical and real. Such was the blacksmith, 
 the ideal man of Windholm. 
 
 Few people, however, quite approved of the way 
 in which he had brought up his daughter. His 
 wife had died so long ago, that Agnes had only 
 her father to look after her education. Being 
 the only child of a man well-to-do, nobody 
 would have been surprised had Agnes Stanfield 
 been sent to a boarding-school and made as 
 much of a fine lady as is practicable to a trades- 
 man's daughter in a \illage ; but nothing 
 of the kind was attempted with the girl. 
 It was the imperceptible difference in the 
 training and the evident difference in the result 
 which puzzled and nettled the Windholm folks. 
 Agnes had gone to Miss Thompson's school like
 
 8 Agnes. 
 
 all tho other girls, and had learned a little 
 music and crocliet-work, just like the rest, to make 
 the writing and spelling palatable. She never 
 had any finishing, any masters, or supernumerary 
 lessons, such as had gone to the perfecting of 
 Miss Rogers, the baker's daughter; and, like 
 all her young contemporaries, she was super- 
 ficial in what she did know, and had only a 
 thin top-dressing of education laid upon the 
 natural soil. But though exactly the same in all 
 these respects, Agnes Stanfield, in herself, was 
 totally different from the others, and not to be 
 identified mth them in any vulgar classification. 
 AVhy? nobody could tell. The fact puzzled 
 everybody in Windholm — puzzled a little, and 
 vexed herself, poor child, who wondered at the 
 little gulf, certainly not of her own making, 
 between herself and her old schoolfellows. As 
 nobody, however, could make out how this was, 
 the natural and only resource remaining was to 
 blame the blacksmith. Perhaps it endeared him 
 the more to his admiring constituency that he 
 was thus demonstrated not to be perfect. After a 
 cordial confession of faith in the village sage, it 
 was comforting to say, " But I don^t approve all 
 the same of the way he's brought up that girl o' 
 his f or, " He's not been judicious about Agnes, 
 I must say ; but then it couldn't be expected as
 
 TVilliam Stanfield. 9 
 
 a man slioiild kiiOAv liow to bring up a bit of a 
 girl/^ " He ought to liave took in a good step- 
 mother to her as long as she didn^t know no dif- 
 ference/^ said the Avomen ; " but la ! when he did 
 marrVj to think as William Stanfield should make 
 a mistake like that/^ For within the last two years 
 it had become apparent that there were two weak 
 points in the blacksmiths character — not only his 
 treatment of his daughter, but his choice of a wife. 
 To be sure, it Avas easy to perceive with half an 
 eye, as they stood together at the smithy door, she 
 remonsti'ating, he listening, that the second ^Irs. 
 Stanfield was not like her husband. The first 
 Mrs. Stanfield had been little more than a girl — 
 sweet-tempered, blue-eyed, apretty, modest creature 
 — one of the flowers of the village, of whom no- 
 body knew anything more than that she was 
 pretty to look at and sweet to listen to, when the 
 young broken-hearted husband laid her in her 
 grave. Twenty years the blacksmith had lived 
 solitary, without, so far as the village knew, look- 
 ing twice at any woman all the time. What 
 was it that roused him out of the tranquillity of 
 his life ? If it had been in the days of witch- 
 craft, of love philters and potions, the village would 
 have decided the matter more easily. Agnes was 
 nearly twenty, her father^s constant companion — 
 and no mother in Belgra^ia could be more
 
 10 Agnes. 
 
 careful of lier daughter's associates than was tlie 
 blacksmith of Windholm that nobody unmeet 
 should approach his woman- child. "VYhat tempted 
 him then^ in the composure of his maturer 
 years_, to bring that red-haired, high-coloured, 
 impatient vagrant of a woman into the house 
 which hitherto had been a model of quiet do- 
 mestic management? Nobody could tell. It 
 was the only mystery in William Stanfield's 
 life. She would have been a scold and a terma- 
 gant in any house but his ; and even in his house 
 she was a vehement, noisy, troublesome presence, 
 always in motion, always in commoiiow, startling 
 all the old usages of the place. She was a widow, 
 and had children of her own — two rough boys, 
 whom she carried with her to the black- 
 smith's, to aggravate all her other shortcomings, 
 and a daughter whom nobody had seen, 
 who was at school, as Mrs. Stanfield boasted 
 incessantly. How William Stanfield could have 
 taken such a person to be his daughter's com- 
 panion and governor, to disturb and revolutionize 
 his house, to introduce new elements of noise and 
 discord liitherto unknown, to distui'b the very 
 air Tvith hasty movements and loud speech, was 
 totally incomprehensible to the surrounding world. 
 From the clergj^- women of Windholm down to 
 the charwomen, the question was discussed with
 
 WilUam Stcnfield. 11 
 
 but one conclusion. '^ The men arc all fools^ my 
 clear^ wliere women are concerned/^ said the wife 
 of the rector to the Avife of the curate ; and so 
 said_, in different and perhaps more piquant 
 plu'aseolog}^, ^Irs. Mumford^ the laundress on the 
 green^ to her assistant Betsy. Perhaps the con- 
 clusions of the male portion of the community 
 were not much different. At all events^ it was 
 totally unexplainable in any other view. The 
 blacksmiths heart or his senses must have been 
 captivated somehow_, and behold^ even in the wise 
 man of the village, the lamentable result. 
 
 How it came about that this piece of strange 
 folly remained totally Avithout effect upon the popu- 
 lar mind_, which still believed in ATilliam Stanfield 
 all the samC;, it would be difficult to explain. 
 Perhaps, because, in the very doing of this great 
 mistake, and through all its consequences, he him- 
 self continued the same, unwise in one practical 
 point, but still wiser in goodness, in temperance, 
 in the ti'anquiility of his blameless life, than any 
 man near. After he had made tliis foolish mar- 
 riage, the world, instead of scoffing, condoned the 
 offence, and perhaps was all the more affectionate 
 from perceiving that he was still but a man like 
 others. Was he now, perhaps, on the verge 
 of something more foolish still, about which even 
 his sti^angely- chosen wife could enlighten him?
 
 12 Agnes. 
 
 There were certainly whispers in the village to 
 that effect^ which had reached Mrs. Stanfield^s 
 ears ; but the blacksmith himself, as has been 
 already said^ was slow — slow to suspect evil — 
 very slow to imagine that anybody meant to 
 wrong himself, or that anything could possibly 
 occur to shake his daughter from the visionary 
 pedestal on which his love had placed her. Now 
 that the thought had been suggested to liim^ he 
 pondered it in his mind_, with a smile sometimes, 
 semetimes with a certain heaviness. Young Tre- 
 velyan had certainly been a frequent visitor. He 
 was a goose, the blacksmith thought to himself, 
 and smiled a gradual smile which made sunshine 
 on his face, and even showed through his drooping 
 eyelashes in the lighting up of the eyes beneath. 
 But then Agnes was young — and William Stan- 
 field had once been young and in love according 
 to nature, though he was now elderly, and had 
 just made a marriage of compassion. What if, 
 perhaps, love, which makes men do so many 
 follies, might blind the eyes of an innocent girl to 
 the fact that a handsome young man was a goose, 
 however apparent it might be to others? Such 
 things had been done before, as everybody knew. 
 The blacksmith thought over the subject until the 
 fires in the smithy paled, and the workmen, of whom 
 he had three, began to pull on their grimy jackets
 
 Wimam Stanfield. 13 
 
 to go Lome. Tlieii tlie master sent the ^prenticc- 
 boVj Oliver^ upstairs with a message,, and making 
 hasty ablutions^ put on his own coat and sallied 
 forth in the sunsetting. It was a veiy unusual step 
 for William Stanfield. Oliver^s message caused 
 an unexplainable commotion upstairs^ for it was 
 only when something more than ordinary had 
 happened that the blacksmith^ instead of coming 
 up to tea as usual, closed up the forge when the 
 workmen left_, and went out himself for a walk.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The Stepmother. 
 
 IRS. STANFIELD drew a long 
 breath of satisfaction as she went in 
 at her own door. She had been only 
 about a year in possession of all these 
 good things, and her heart had not yet got so 
 habituated to them as to forget a throb of pride, 
 sometimes a sentiment of thankfulness, when she 
 closed her own honest door, and stood the bearer 
 of an honourable name, one of the chief ma^trons 
 of the village, within those walls which had taken 
 her in out of the uncertainty of an almost vagrant 
 life. All this comfort, honour, and wealth was 
 still sufficiently new to her to suggest a renewed 
 satisfaction to her mind every time she entered. 
 The door opened upon a passage, carpeted 
 down the middle with a long strip of bright- 
 coloured carpet, at the end of which was the closed 
 door of the parlour. On the left hand in the 
 corner ascended the stair which led to the bed-
 
 The Stepmother. 15 
 
 chambers, and on the right hand T^as a little 
 square space lighted Avith a \rindow — a curious 
 bright recess off the passage — a kind of little 
 porter^s lodge, from uhich the outer stair and 
 everybody who approached the house could be in- 
 spected ; — though, indeed, the wall was so thin, 
 and the window so close upon that outside stair- 
 case, that it would have been almost impossible 
 to carry on any such espials without attracting the 
 observation of the person without. Nothing could 
 go on in the yard below without being perfectly com- 
 manded by this window. If it chanced to be open, 
 nothing could even be said without being heard, if 
 anybody chose to listen ; and as the second Mrs. 
 Stanfield was jealous and curious, as became a 
 woman suddenly raised to an en\dable elevation, 
 about what people said of her, and entertained an 
 idea (not so far wrong at one time) that everybody 
 was talking about her, this point of observation 
 was a very favourite one ; and there she sat 
 often in the cold, with the window up a little, and 
 herself only partially apparent behind the white 
 blind, listening to a world of trivial remarks 
 about horses and iron, by way of picking up the 
 gossip which she knew very well was rife about 
 her all over Windholm. The only time, indeed, 
 in which she was ever known to be quiet was 
 when seated watchful, but uncomfortable, in this
 
 16 Agnes. 
 
 niche, with some pretence at Tvork in her hand. 
 She made little of it, it is true, for the people in 
 the yard were mostly men, and busy with their 
 own business ; but the exciting possibility of 
 hearing herself discussed kept her alert, and 
 sometimes she was rewarded by a bitter word or 
 two, enough to reanimate the lawless spirit which 
 smouldered for lack of fuel, almost subdued by 
 the quiet of this orderly house. 
 
 She did not go in directly to Agnes, as she had 
 intended, nor even to the comfortable, bright, 
 well-ordered kitchen, of which she was even more 
 proud than the parlour. She went upstairs to 
 make herself tidy, as she said, after having been 
 blown about a little by the frolicsome March wind. 
 She was a little more than forty, a handsome buxom 
 woman. Had she been in a higher rank, and more 
 carefully preserved, her complexion would have 
 been the theme of unlimited admiration ; but in 
 this latitude the brilliant roses on her cheeks were 
 known, and not inappropriately, as a high colour, 
 and regarded with modified applauses. She was 
 highly coloured throughout, with a full-blown 
 bloom not unsuitable to her years. Her hair was 
 of the warmest tinge of brown, though only her 
 enemies called it red ; and over her throat and 
 her arms, her chin and forehead, and ears and 
 elbows, the once pearly dazzling white was all
 
 The Stepmother. ^ 17 
 
 creamed over with a faint flush. It certainly was 
 a beautiful colour — but there was a little too 
 much of it. It gave a certain sensuous aspect to 
 her full form and plump arms, off which she Avas 
 fond of pushing her sleeves, up and down, wheu 
 she had nothing else to do. Altogether rather a 
 carnal sort of woman, all made of flesh and 
 blood j not a touch of white had yet softened the 
 rich glory of her abundant hair, and time had 
 not ironed out or filled up the roseleaf dimples 
 about her. She stood, in a kind of fiery 
 overblown beauty before the mirror — a creature 
 who had stormed through her life, snatching 
 every pleasure within reach, making small ac- 
 count of any restraint, utterly without self- 
 control, or any attempt at it, or even perception 
 that it was desirable. Her eyes were hazel, 
 ■with a red gleam in them, which brought all the 
 softer red in her to a culmination. Soft blue 
 eyes would have made her almost beautiful ; but 
 the fiery hazel carried out the character, while 
 they spoiled the perfection of her face. The 
 warm, round, pleasure-loving, self-indulgent form 
 took an aspect of heat and excitement from those 
 eyes — they made her look dangerous in her voci- 
 ferous, middle-aged beauty. This was the appear- 
 ance she presented as she stood before the looking- 
 glass, putting up her hair and arranging her cap. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 Agnes. 
 
 How liad that room^ in wliicli so many tranquil 
 hours and speechless thoughts had passed over 
 William Stanfiekl, come to belong to this wild 
 flushed creaturCj with all her animal beauty and 
 fierce impulses^ who did not know what thoughts 
 were ? Heayen knows ! This was exactly the 
 question which the entire population of Windholm^ 
 laying its many heads together, could not solye. 
 Certain it was that there she stood, indisputable 
 mistress — a fair, round, roseate fact, secure in 
 her rights, and triumphant. That great ward- 
 robe was hers, with all its wings and shelyes — 
 those slielyes from which she had herself remoyed 
 some simple muslin gowns, all strewn with bits 
 of layender, which were all William Stanfield 
 had to remind him of the girl- wife whom he had 
 left behind so far away in his youth. The new 
 wife cleared them all away to Agnes^s room, and 
 her husband did not blame her; she had a 
 right. And hers, too, were the piles of fragrant 
 linen inside, of which she had taken possession 
 with a sense of wealth unknown to all her life 
 before, though she had spent money enough in 
 her day. She stood secure and triumphant there 
 in her own chamber, her surprise at the achieye- 
 ment growing less, but her exultation still in its 
 height. Eyen now she paused to look admiringly 
 round at all the well-polished substantial furni-
 
 The Stepmother. 19 
 
 turc; and arranged lier cap in the great mirror 
 with an additional complacence to feel that this^ 
 as well as the glowing face she saw in it^ was her 
 very own. 
 
 What the past was into which this lawless 
 creature looked back, in her own heart and 
 memory, nobody knew ; and nobody knew so little 
 as the hnmble preux chevalier, who had taken 
 what seemed her poverty, and helplessness, and 
 destitution into this bosom of plenty. He could 
 no more have fathomed her thoughts or guessed 
 at her recollections than — she could have guessed 
 at or fathomed his. They occupied this room and 
 this house together, di'camed and slumbered side by 
 side, breathed the same air, ate the same food, 
 and were about as far apart from each other all 
 the time as heaven is from hell. Not quite as 
 heaven from hell ; she was an undisciplined 
 being, obeying the wild impulses of her own 
 nature rather than any law human or divine, but 
 there was no bottomless pit nor sulphui^eous blazes 
 as yet in her soul, if she had a soul. But they 
 were as far apart as two human creatures totally 
 different — the one all harmony, the other all 
 discord, coidd be ; and yet they were joint pro- 
 prietors of this house and this room. The great 
 wardrobe contained still in one of its divisions 
 the black widow^s dress and close bonnet in 
 c 2
 
 20 Agnes. 
 
 which two years ago^ Avhen she first came to 
 Windholm^ she had endeavoured to soften down 
 and snbdue her exuberant flesh and blood. She 
 was Mrs. Smith then, a convenient name, and 
 was destitute and half-starving, she and her boys, 
 for whom she had a wild kind of tigress fondness. 
 She had described herself as a sailor's widow, and 
 made violent attempts to get employment, she 
 did not mind what, to maintain the children, who 
 immediately became the pests of Windholm. 
 For a time she did work, vehemently, in a storm 
 of zeal and haste, but soon gave in, got dis- 
 couraged, and gave herself up to starvation with 
 passionate outcries. And it was then that 
 William Stanfield, of all men in the world, came 
 to the rescue, married her by some miracle, sent 
 off her lawless boys to sea, and placed her mistress 
 in this serene and plentiful house. That was her 
 entire history, so far as it was known in the 
 village. She was not communicative about the 
 previous chapters; and the late Smith held no place 
 in his mdow's reminiscences. The only thing she 
 did speak of belonging to her past existence, 
 except vague accounts of what she herself had 
 done and " come through," was her daughter, 
 who was at a boarding-school in the south of 
 England, kept there by her father^ s friends. 
 This girlj who had never been seen in Windholm,
 
 The Stepmother. 21 
 
 ■was Mrs. Stanfield's grand corps de reserve. She 
 was produced on all occasions when a greater 
 effect than ordinary was desii'able ; she was 
 getting the best of educations from her father's 
 friends. Such was the only link of connexion 
 apparent between the blacksmith^s "\yife in her 
 new position, and the old stormy existence, of 
 which the Windholm folks Avere ready to form 
 the mldest conjectures, without power to prove 
 any of them true. 
 
 '' She"*!! come to harm, that^s what will 
 happen," said Mrs. Stanfield to herself, as she 
 stood before the glass — " and if she does — other 
 folks has been as bad — it^s no concern of mine. 
 The master would mind me more if he wasn't so 
 took up about that chit of a girl. ]\]ercy me ! 
 I wasn^t speaking out loud, was I ? To think as 
 it should be young Roger ! I hope to goodness 
 as his father isn^t coming here ; he^d take to 
 following Ms son, and then, AAOuldn^t there be 
 squalls agoing ? He's fond of me, is the master," 
 mused the blacksmith's wife, giving the finish- 
 ing touch to her cap. She paused now in her 
 thoughts, and held her head a little on one side 
 and contemplated her own face with a smile. 
 Perhaps she thought it was no wonder the master 
 was fond of her, much as the world of Windholm 
 marvelled over that fact. As for the heroine
 
 90. 
 
 Agnes. 
 
 herself, slie appreciated more tlian anybody else 
 the charm of her o^m roseate full-blooded 
 comeliness. Though she had an awe of the 
 master which she never could explain to her- 
 self, it exhilarated her to think of exciting his 
 jealousy and bringing him down from his pedestal 
 of goodness. Such fancies vanished from her 
 mind in his presence. But when she was alone, 
 the natural produce of the soil appeared again. 
 Then, having finished her toilet, she went down- 
 stairs, pausing as she passed in the recess by the 
 door to glance out with her usual curiosity. It 
 was just six O'clock, and the red light of sunset 
 was streaming into the yard in long level rays 
 through the archway. The men were leaving, 
 pulling on their jackets, and behind them she 
 could see the master in his blue coat issuing out 
 of the smithy door. With a little tremor and 
 surprise she saw him pass the stair and follow 
 liis workmen out into the street. It disturbed 
 her vaguely, though she did not understand the 
 fuU significance of the fact, that the master, 
 instead of coming in to tea, had gone out for a 
 walk.
 
 ^'^^^^^^^^H 
 
 ^^M 
 
 ^m 
 
 ^^^^^P^K^^^ 
 
 ^^m 
 
 ^m 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Agnes. 
 
 RS. STANFIELD ^vent first to tlie 
 kitclien^ wliicli was one of the two 
 rooms facing to the fi-ont over the 
 archway. The sun streamed in 
 here as it had done in the yard^ but ^vith a fuller 
 flood. She stopped there for some time, talking 
 to ]Martha^ who Avas nearly as full and as ruddy 
 as her mistress, but much milder and more 
 dutiful of nature. While the stepmother is 
 there in that more congenial atmosphere, let us 
 open the door at the end of the passage, which 
 was still closed when ^Mrs. Stanficld passed it on 
 her way to the kitchen, and see, as the black- 
 smith's wife had not yet taken the trouble to 
 ascertain, what Agnes was about. 
 
 Agnes was sitting at one of the windows, 
 defended from the sunshine by the Venetian 
 blinds, which let in the light only in bars upon 
 her drooping head. She was working, as became
 
 24 Agnes. 
 
 lier father's daugliter — not at fancy-work in any 
 of its brandies, but at ordinary stitching of a useful 
 kind, to serve the common necessities of the house. 
 There was nothing particularly refined or graceful 
 in the room, which was a good-sized square apart- 
 ment, with ordinary homely mahogany furniture, 
 and curtains at the windows, and a red-and-blue 
 cover on the table. The blinds were down 
 because of the sun, so that it was only in 
 peeps between the Venetian bars that the outer 
 world was visible — to wit, the Adllage green lying 
 red and bright in the level sunshine, which threw 
 up the black outline of the great house opposite 
 and its cedars against the red sky in the west. 
 But, indeed, the outside world had no special 
 charm just then for the blacksmith's daughter. 
 She was pursuing her work without raising her 
 head, having enough to do at the moment in her 
 heart without taldng note of anything external. 
 After all, to the limited extent of her '\'ision, it 
 was the stepmother who was right. If the young 
 squire was indeed a goose, Agnes knew no more 
 of it than if she had herself been as stupid as any 
 heavy milkmaid; less, indeed, for at least the 
 milkmaid might have seen liim with real eyes 
 where he sat beside her, leaning forward, with one 
 red line marking his forehead and crossing the 
 thin, well-brushed curls of his light hair ; whereas
 
 Agnes. 25 
 
 Agnes saw, not Roger Trevelyan, but an im- 
 possible paladin of romance, tlie noblest and 
 truest tliat ever swore fealty to liappy maiden. 
 She did not use sucli words^ certainly, even in lier 
 heart, yet that was how the matter appeared to 
 those eves which she bent over her work. 
 They had said nothing to each other as yet, nor 
 broken in any way the charmed silence of their 
 youth, and they were both in a condition of 
 exquisite, unconfessed, nameless happiness, far 
 more delicate and rare than any understood or 
 acknowledged bliss. So far the stepmother was 
 right enough; but beyond that her insight did 
 not go. The ghost she saw behind had no ex- 
 istence. Harm of any kind was not in the 
 youtVs thoughts any more than in the visionary 
 heart of the girl. Eoger Trevelyan, glad to find 
 the blacksmith^s strange wife out of the way, and 
 not Sony that the village sage himself delayed 
 his coming, had been reading to Agnes out of a 
 book which he had offered to lend her. In case 
 there might have been any chance of love-making, 
 had the two been left to frame conversation for 
 each other, what so safe as a book to fill up with 
 its impersonal presence the gap between them? 
 So Roger read, not without a pleasant sense of 
 superiority, and consciousness that he must 
 be opening ncAV worlds to William Stanfield's
 
 26 Agnes. 
 
 dangliter ; and^ as was natural, tlie book lie liad 
 chosen was poetry ; and the poem he was reading 
 was that loveliest of all ballads_, in which the poet 
 woos and wins his Genevieve. Now, yo^ng 
 Trevelyan was fresh from Oxford, accustomed to 
 read verses and to hear them criticized. He knew 
 exacth^ what ought to be said about that match- 
 less strain, and the music of it pleased his ear, 
 and he was aware that it held a high rank in 
 poetry — besides all Avhich a little personal illumi- 
 nation had fallen on it just then, he scarcely 
 knew how, and sent a tingle and thrill through 
 him as he read — 
 
 •' All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame." 
 
 But the words, which were a pleasant song to the 
 reader, floated in a kind of ecstasy over Agnes. 
 Though she did not look up, her hands stayed upon 
 her work, her breath upon her lips to listen. 
 They bore her up upon celestial wings, those 
 wonderful words. She could scarcely tell where 
 she was, or what it was that rapt her thus out 
 of herself. The poetry passed lightly over the 
 young Oxford man, even though he was in love, 
 having no real relations with him, but it swept 
 into the soul of the listening girl, and trans- 
 formed her to her own dazzled consciousness. 
 She could not utter a word when he ceased.
 
 Agnes, 27 
 
 Slie sat quite stilly Avitli the celestial fumes 
 of tlie poetry iu lier brain^ overwhelmed with a 
 strange confusion. When he began to talk she 
 felt herself come down slowly into the real world, 
 from, which she liad been transported and carried 
 away; and thus was sitting somewhat giddy and 
 faint_, working with trembling fingers, her entire 
 frame still vibrating to the past music. And 
 the young squire lingered, as Mrs. Stanfield had 
 anticipated, and evidently did not feel himself at 
 all out of his element in the tidy parlour of the 
 blacksmiths house. 
 
 It was not a proper place for the young 
 squire — that was undeniable, to start with. On 
 the other side of the village, standing out black 
 against the ruddy western sky, was the Cedars, 
 where there were three young ladies, all perfectly 
 able to meet young Trevelyan on his own ground, 
 and to read poetry with him, or engage in any 
 other dangerous pleasant pastime ; young ladies 
 not exactly of his own rank, perhaps — without 
 either pedigree or wealth enough to please the 
 Trevelyans — but still ladies, unconscious of the 
 existence of the blacksmith^s daughter. He had 
 played croquet with them on their pleasant lawn, 
 and had even gone with the prettiest to see the 
 cedar- trees in the moonlight, when he first 
 arrived at the desolate old Hall, where Sir Roger
 
 28 Agnes, 
 
 had despatched him to look after the steward's 
 accounts^ and inquire into the longevity of the 
 tenants. Many people thought the Cedars the 
 pleasantest house in Windholm^ and envied the 
 young squire his cordial welcome there ; but 
 after the first eventful day, on which he sauntered 
 yawning from the gate and crossed over to the 
 forge, in mere idleness, to inquire after the shoeing 
 of his favourite horse, young Roger's thoughts 
 had gone in a direction entirely contrary to the 
 Cedars. That was at least two months before the 
 beginning of this history. First of all, he went to 
 see AVilliam Stanfield, who, indeed, exercised a cer- 
 tain fascination over everybody who approached 
 him ; then, as fate would have it, the young man 
 had somehow strayed up the outer stair into the 
 parlour ; then, he Avould have been in that par- 
 lour for ever, had it been practicable. Some 
 excuse, carefully manufactured yet wonderfully 
 genuine — for it is the privilege of youth to believe 
 in its OAvn* fictions, and to persuade the world of 
 their authenticity — led his steps thither almost 
 every day. The blacksmith, who was used to 
 be sought, received him simply without thinking 
 much about the matter ; and so all the village got 
 once more a- talking, and young Trevelyan sat in 
 the parlour over the archway, reading how 
 Genevieve was wooed and Avon, to a "sdllage girl.
 
 Agnes, 29 
 
 She got up softly when she came to herself — 
 a little afraid of herself^ afraid of him and of 
 the Tvorld which seemed to be opening full of 
 new significance around her. " ]My father 
 will soon come in to tea/^ said the blacksmith's 
 daughter^ putting down her needlework^ and 
 proceeding, as a means of escape from the crisis, 
 to set on the table the china teacups from the 
 cupboard in the corner. Tea, set out upon a 
 homely daylight table in the character of a prosaic 
 meal, is perhaps of all meals the most prosaic. 
 Such an idea, however, never crossed the mind of 
 Agnes. She went away from the window where the 
 red sunshine came in low and level through the 
 blind, ti'eading with light feet over what seemed 
 to be a heap of i-uddy gold on the carpet, and 
 went about her simple business with no other 
 consciousness than that it was her business, 
 and with still the thrill and cadence of the 
 poetry, and of something still more urgent than 
 the poetry, hanging about her like vibrations of 
 music. She was of a light low figure, perfectly 
 dressed — that is, dressed just as was suitable for 
 the blacksmith's daughter. Her go^n was 
 dark grey, of a fine and light woollen fabric, 
 taking folds which a painter would have loved ; 
 and her little collar and cufi*s wei'c spotless and 
 dazzling in their simplicity. Her step keeping
 
 30 Agnes. 
 
 a kind of visionary time to tliat music T\'liicli 
 enveloped lier still, had all tlie grace of uncon- 
 sciousness and preoccupation. Her small head 
 drooped upon the delicate throat as if all that 
 mass of hair overweighed it; hair matchless in 
 Windholm, black without a tinge of any invad- 
 ing colour,, folded in magnificent braids round 
 the little head, which recovered size without 
 losing delicacy by means of that investiture. 
 She had no colour except when she was moved, 
 as at this moment; when it went and came, a 
 blush too sweet and faint to be kept steady, or 
 identified as complexion. Last of all, her eyes, 
 which young Trevelyan found it so difiicult to 
 see, but which, when he did see them, opened up 
 to that careless young soul two wonderful 
 avenues into the unspeakable and unrevealed; 
 they were blue of the deepest violet colour, 
 totally unlike her father's, yet taking from his 
 a certain breadth of pathetic simplicity which it 
 would be hard to describe — sweet serious eyes, 
 which were sad without meaning it, without 
 knowing why. This was the handmaid who 
 moved about in her beauty before the young 
 squire, setting on the table the many-coloured 
 teacups. He could not have told whether she 
 was the blacksmith^ s daughter of Windholm or 
 an enchanted princess — either or both, what did
 
 Agnes. 31 
 
 it matter ? It -sA'as slie — and tliere was not^ so 
 far as young Roger was concerned^ tliougli lie 
 scarcely knew it, any other in tlie world. 
 
 " Your father is late to-niglit/-' said tlie young 
 squire, getting up from liis cliair, looking out 
 through the Venetian blinds, finally looking at 
 his Avatch in the vague embarrassment of the 
 pause, which seemed as if it should have cul- 
 minated into something, and which he regarded 
 with a certain half terror and surprise, now that 
 it had passed away. Was it a lingering of 
 nature that detained the youth and the maiden 
 upon the verge, and kept them still afloat in 
 that sweetest uncertainty ? They had missed the 
 moment just then, and had agreed in the little 
 panic which j^rompted both to sudden motion, 
 to sudden descent out of those dangerous 
 heights. Thus it was that they fell on the most 
 prosaic subjects, feeling half consciously, how near 
 they had been to one subject which would have 
 driven time and place, and fathers and mundane 
 necessities, altogether out of their heads. 
 
 " Yes." — Agnes made a little pause as she 
 arranged the cups. " He sometimes stays 
 longer than the men. Did you ever knoAV any- 
 body like my father ?" she continued softly. 
 There was a certain protection almost like his 
 presence in speaking of him.
 
 32 Agnes, 
 
 '' No/' said Roger, and then the young man 
 hesitated a little ; " if he had been educated," 
 said the Oxford scholar, who knew no better, 
 "he would have been a very remarkable 
 man/' 
 
 Agnes was in no mood to contradict or even 
 to differ from the young squire, but in her 
 heart she objected unconsciously to the idea of 
 any possible improvement in her father. " I 
 suppose education makes a great difference," she 
 said, rather wistfully; "but he thinks a great 
 deal, though he does not read much — is not that 
 the best of all ?" 
 
 "Nobody thinks now-a-days," said Roger, 
 with that flippancy which Agnes did not under- 
 stand — " there is nothing but talk in the world. 
 I daresay, iiyou were to hear the conversation that 
 goes on in — in society, you know — it would 
 sound to you as if people meant it ; but it's all 
 sound and fury, signifying nothing ; words — bare 
 words; nobody ever thinks now-a-days — at 
 least, in the world." 
 
 "Nor mean what they say?" said Agnes 
 with unconscious satire ; " but perhaps you arc 
 too hard upon people who may not — be equal to 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, Agnes ! Well, it is a very complimentary 
 delusion, and I ought to keep you up in it," cried
 
 Agnes, 33 
 
 tlic young squire, with a laugli of natural lio- 
 iiesty, ^^ but I am sorry to say people in general 
 have not so high an opinion of me. Why, I 
 was as near plucked as possible — though I dare 
 say you don^t understand what that is ;" and Roger 
 broke off abruptly, thinking, perhaps, he had been 
 too candid, and that there was no need to have made 
 that last confession. The only result it had, how- 
 ever, was a very agreeable one. It made Agnes raise 
 to him those blue deep serious eyes, which took 
 nothing lightly, and which at the present moment 
 were full of mysterious sympathy and wonder. 
 She did not in the least know what being plucked 
 meant. She imderstood it only as some 
 wrong the wicked world, most probably in envy, 
 had tried to do him, and the blue wondering 
 sorrowful depths quickened with a little flash of 
 indignation, until they dropped again, in that 
 consciousness of being gazed into, which was so 
 new and overpowering to Agnes. She withdrew 
 hun'iedly from his gaze, and this time went to the 
 door to look for Mrs. Stanfield, wlio was just 
 then questioning Oliver in the passage. " Gone 
 out for a Avalk ! not come to his tea V said the 
 blacksmith^s wife ; ^' Avhen does the master mean 
 to come in, I wonder ? And just when I wanted 
 my tea particular. You run and tell him we're 
 waiting, Nolly, and V\c got a bit of a headache." 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 Agnes. 
 
 All wMcli words Roger Trevelyan heard as lie stood 
 by the window looking out through the Venetian 
 blinds. The three young ladies at the Cedars 
 were just then crossing the green, all in scarlet 
 petticoats, festooned dresses, and hats of the 
 last fashion. They were going in to dress for 
 dinner, and the sight of them recalled the 
 young squire, standing in the blacksmith's par- 
 lour with " the tea-things '^ upon the table, to 
 some passing thoughts of the region of life to 
 which he himself belonged. Very passing 
 thoughts, for Agnes came in again, like a nun in 
 her Carmelite grey, with those dazzling white 
 cuffs round her slender little hands, and drawing 
 up the blind from the farther window, sat down 
 to her work once more. She had left the door 
 open, too, that door which young Trevelyan 
 never failed to close when he could manage it, 
 shutting out the loud stepmother and the com- 
 monplace house. These were all little harmless 
 precautions on the part of Agnes against the 
 confidential intercourse which in her heart 
 she began to shrink from and grow afi*aid of, 
 delightful as it was. But to see her sitting 
 there at the windoAV, exposed to the gaze of the 
 people outside, if there had ])een anybody to 
 gaze, and with the open door opposite, diluting 
 this charmed atmosphere with common air and
 
 Agnes. 35 
 
 the liomble presence of r\rrs. Stanfield^ was too 
 mucli for the young squire. He went to the 
 "vyindow she was seated at, and leaned against it, 
 and said in an abstracted tone, " I must go away." 
 " Must you V said Agnes without looking up, 
 but with a quickening throb of her heart. " I 
 suppose so,^^ said Roger ; " you are tired of me — 
 you take up your work, you tlu'ow the door 
 open, you imite other people to come in. It 
 is time I should go aAvay.^' 
 
 Agnes did not make any answer. Usually the 
 blacksmith himself had come in and was one of 
 the party when young Trevelyan took his leave. 
 They had never up to this time come to tlie sug- 
 gestive moment of parting, by themselves. The 
 young squii'e did not move after he had spoken, 
 but stood leaning against the edge of the vsdndow- 
 shutter, gazing down upon her — gazing intently, 
 so that she felt her forehead scorching and gloAving 
 under the fire of his eyes. She kept on sewing, 
 making spasmodic uncertain stitches in her bewil- 
 derment, but keeping very hard at it, to support 
 herself ; and he stood with a kind of tender rage 
 looking down upon her. " You don^t care whether 
 I go or stay,^' said the young man, forgetting him- 
 self. " When I go away, it is to wander about 
 all night, thinking of you, or to sit by myself in 
 that wretched old Hall, dreaming about you ; — and 
 D 2
 
 36 Agnes. 
 
 you keep your eyes fixed upon that bit of rag and 
 never once look at me/^ cried the young lover, 
 divided between the impulse of darting out in a 
 pet away from her, and of throwing himself down 
 at her feet. 
 
 Agnes lifted a startled look to him out of 
 those alarmed blue eyes — a look which he had 
 scarcely time to see ere it was gone. But rapid 
 as it was, he did not know hoAV to answer its sweet- 
 ness, its sadness, its silent reproach, and the 
 warning it seemed to convey. He was silent in 
 spite of himself. There was an unspeakable ap- 
 peal to his forbearance in that glance. It seemed 
 to say, " Stop ! don^t say anything that will 
 make me flee from you.^' Roger was checked 
 in the petulance of his young passion. He 
 restrained himself for her sake ; he could not 
 understand the sudden curb, which was sweet, 
 yet hard to bear, against which he fretted himself, 
 yet which raised his love and admiration to the 
 point of enthusiasm. He was silent till he heard 
 Mrs. Stanfield^s step. It was impossible just 
 then to endui-e her presence. 
 
 " Yes, I must go,^^ said Roger. " You always 
 shake hands with me, Agnes. I am going — that 
 is to say, as much of me as can go," added the 
 young man, as he held fast for an instant the 
 little coy hand. Next moment Mrs. Stanfield
 
 Agnes. 
 
 was ill the room. ^' I liave been waiting for tlie 
 master/^ said yonng Trevelyan, bursting out into 
 a little natural impertinence; '^'^but as lie is not 
 coming, I must go. Perliaps I sliall meet liim 
 in tlie road. Sliall I say you liave a lieadaclie, 
 and want your tea^ Mrs. Stanfield? When lie 
 hears that, he will certainly come home.^' 
 
 '^'^Ay do^ please, sir/^ said the blacksmith^s 
 wife ; " though how you should know as I've got 
 
 the headache, Mr. Trevelyan But woiiH you 
 
 stay till the master comes ? You do most nights. 
 He might have something as he wanted to say." 
 
 " Not to-night/' said Roger, with conscious- 
 ness in his looks ; and he went away without any 
 further farewells. As for Agnes, she went on 
 sewing, feeling as if the sun had gone down all 
 at once. The air seemed to rustle and stir in 
 that vacant place Avliere he had stood a minute 
 before. His words had confused her, as was 
 natural^ and she was conscious of ha^-ing stopped 
 him — begged him to stop — though she could not 
 account for the impulse Avliich had moved her. 
 She would have given the world to get free, to 
 run up to her own room and think it over, and 
 perhaps subdue her heart into its ordinary pul- 
 sations ; but Mrs. Stanfield was more than usually 
 talkative that night. 
 
 " You are a pretty Miss to have everybody
 
 38 Afjnes. 
 
 a-tMnkiug- and a-talking of you/^ said the step- 
 mother. " Here's yoiu' fatlier^ poor man^ gone 
 out for a ^\^i\k, for nothings, yon take my -word, 
 bnt to tliink it over and see that's best to be 
 done. He^s been a- saying something particular 
 to you to-niglit?'' 
 
 " Who ?" said Agnes, with faltering lips. 
 
 " Don't tell me ! I know things Avlien I see 
 'em. He's been a-saying something out of the 
 common. I don't ask you to make a friend o' 
 me, for I don't think as you ev^r liked me, 
 Agnes Stanfield," said the blacksmith's wife; 
 " but I know how such things go on — ay, a deal 
 better than your father ; and good can't come of 
 it, child," added the woman, mth a little natural 
 feeling. " I could tell you tales would wring 
 your heart ; and I can't a-bear to see another go 
 the same road — no, not if it was to be twenty 
 times for my benefit. You'll not listen to liim 
 no more, Agnes Stanfield, if you'll be guided 
 by me." 
 
 Agnes grew very pale ; her strange upbringing 
 had matured in her a germ of visionary pride, 
 very natural in her circumstances, and it was 
 true that she did not like the stepmother, against 
 whom all the refinement of her natiu-e revolted. 
 She answered, lifting her head out of its habitual 
 droop, with a lighting up of her serious eyes, and
 
 Agnes. 39 
 
 momentary dilation of her delicate nostril. " No 
 one has ever said anything to me ^vhich I ought 
 not to listen to_," said Agnes. She spoke like 
 one Tvho ends a controversy_, and does not mean 
 to hear any more about it. All Mrs. StanfiekVs 
 wealth of words could haAC come to nothing 
 against that gentle immovable rock of reso- 
 lution ; and so her stepmother had already 
 found out by experiment. So she left the girl 
 undisturbed at her sewing, and went out to the 
 causeway, with the ribbons of her cap waging in 
 the wind, to look for her husband. Agnes, when 
 she was left alone, let her work drop on her 
 knees, and bowed her head upon her hand, and 
 abandoned herself — to dreams? Scarcely to 
 dreams. The words that had been spoken -within 
 the previous hour took possession of the silence 
 like so many fairies, and wove mystic dances 
 round her : " All thoughts, all passions, all 
 delights.^^ Ah ! what was that " mystic flame^' 
 which everything thus went to feed ?
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 
 
 E Avciit away from tlie village over 
 the common, wliere the gorse bushes 
 were sloAvly bursting into flower. 
 There was nothing remarkable in 
 Some red-tiled cottages dropt on 
 one side, with a line of l^rown road in front 
 of them, bordered by some tall elms, and 
 terminating in the garden-gates and genteel 
 retirement of one of the great houses of Wind- 
 holm ; and ])rokcn only by the broad high- 
 road which led to London and the world ; an 
 irregular stretch of common, spreading away into 
 the west, into the great belt of crimson-golden 
 sky, which enclosed the flat country. That was 
 all ; except the minor details of green grass and 
 yellow" gorse, and the broad level line of sunshine 
 which poured across the landscape, casting long 
 shadow^s of every obstacle it encountered upon 
 the soft gi'eensward^ which never looks so sweet 
 
 the scenery.
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 41 
 
 under anv other li2:lit. Tliere were some lads 
 playing cricket in tlie corner of tlie com- 
 mon, but beyond tliat evervtbins: was verv 
 still. The great people vrere preparing for 
 dinner_, tlie small people were having tea, as 
 William Stanfield ought to have been doing at 
 this moment. It was an hour of quiet through- 
 out "Windholm. The blacksmith saw scarcely 
 anybody to speak of, except in the distance the 
 figure of a lady, upon a tall horse, doubly taR 
 and yery dark and ominous against the illuminated 
 sky. By reason of his occupation, he knew pretty 
 well all the female equestrians of the district, 
 but he did not recognise tliis tall figure upon the 
 'tall horse, and even amid the preoccupation of 
 his own thoughts wondered rather who she could 
 be. She was going along slowly at a walking 
 pace, against the sunshine, which threw a broken 
 gigantic shadow of her form over the tm^f, and 
 did the same by her groom, who followed slowly 
 after at the same pace, leading another horse. 
 They passed on slowly out of sight as the black- 
 smith crossed the common, folio vring their 
 movements with his eyes, and disappeared in the 
 light at the next turning, which led to the Hall 
 gates. Before they went out of sight, the lady 
 had paused to look round, as if for the absent 
 rider of the led horse, which was a white one,
 
 42 Agnes. 
 
 and made its own special mark in tlie landscape — 
 and even while lie discussed liis own ajffairs, 
 William Stanfield_, witli tlie rapid curiosity of a 
 "villager^ could not but pause to ask himself who 
 this could be. 
 
 However, his own affairs were urgent. The 
 wind blew soft over the common_, hushed out of 
 its ]\Iarch wildness into an ideal air of spring, and 
 bearing upon it the faint honeyed breath of the 
 gorse and odour of the fresh earth and growing 
 grass. Stanfield wound his way up and down 
 through the little knolls and hollows, with 
 the level sun shining in his eyes whenever he 
 raised them, and waking up a broad placid bright- 
 ness in those meditative orbs. His broad breast 
 expanded to the sweet air and peaceful evening. 
 He had little to say about the landscape and its 
 beauties, and, indeed, its beauties were few; but 
 the atmosphere entered into and possessed him, 
 laying its open secret lovingly apparent to the 
 eyes which could see. Was it likely that imder 
 such circumstances he could judge his child by 
 the gossips^ stories of the village ? A smile 
 came upon his lip as he mused. His pretty 
 young wife had died so yoimg and so long ago, 
 that though she was his tenderest recollection 
 she was scarcely his ideal. He had found that 
 in his child. All the poetry in William Stan-
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 43 
 
 field's life was associated witli Agnes ; lier sweet 
 gravity^ licr young tlioiiglitfulness_, tlie delicate 
 purity of atmosphere about the girl for whom he 
 was conscious education had done so little^, with- 
 out being at all aware how much a merciful 
 abstinence from education and his own example 
 and society had done — made her a kind of 
 tender child-goddess to her father. What was to 
 be her fate he had not speculated. A mother 
 might have done so^ but the father was content 
 to leave her as she was^ and could not think 
 that youth, that tender bloom, need ever fade. 
 To be always young, always delicate, virginal, 
 a thing apart, seemed the natural conclusion in 
 respect to Agnes ; the common fate, mamage 
 and motherhood, a lover, a wedding, a new 
 household, with prosaic necessities and eveiyday 
 wants, had never occurred to her father in con- 
 nexion with her. He rather shrank from the 
 thought now and eluded it. It Avas not only 
 that he thought, as a doting father might, 
 nobody good enough for his beautiful child — but 
 that the idea itself was profane, a kind of dese- 
 cration. And then young Ti-evely an? The slow 
 smile gi'cw on William StanfiekVs face. That 
 Agnes could think twice of a shallow youth like 
 their visitor was inconceivable to him. He 
 forgot that she was only a girl, and knew nothing
 
 44 Agnes, 
 
 of men. He forgot tlie celestial glamour of 
 yoiitli "wliicli was still in lier eyes. She was not 
 a village girl, but one of the sacred band of saints 
 and angels to her father. He put away the 
 thought from him_, with something which in 
 another man might have been haughtiness. It 
 stopped short of haughtiness with him, not 
 because he was the ^dllage blacksmith, but 
 because his nature ^^as too broad and genial for 
 any such superficial sentiment. And then ha^ing 
 quite cleared his Agnes in his mind from 
 any possible share in such a frivolous fancy, 
 William Stanfield had leisure to consider the 
 practical question which he had come out here to 
 discuss Avith himself in the face of nature, and in 
 the silence of the fields. 
 
 This was, whether he ought to dismiss from his 
 house the young visitor whom he believed in his 
 heart to be so totally harmless ; whether he should 
 so far yield to common prejudices as to send 
 away a young man who never could be regarded 
 as a possible husband for Agnes, out of her way ? 
 Perhaps some instinct in his own mind consented 
 to the suggestion ; but at the bottom he was a 
 proud man, though nobody knew it ; and his hos- 
 pitality, his generous mind, his pride for his child, 
 alike rebelled against the thought. Had he been 
 more intellectual than he was, he might have
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 45 
 
 respected Roger Trevelvan^s education^ and given 
 him credit for attainments so superior to liis 
 own. But ^'illiam Stanfield was not intellec- 
 tual; lie judged liis young acquaintance by a 
 different standard^ by bis character, by the size 
 and stature of his spirit; and finding nothing 
 imposing there, it was with a certain mild tolera- 
 tion and good-humoured half-contempt that he 
 regarded the young squire. "^Miy should he 
 send him away? What harm coidd the lad 
 do ? To deny him admission was to confess that 
 the youth^s influence counted for something, 
 which was more than all the blacksmith^ s mag- 
 nanimity could induce him to acknowledge. 
 And the result would, most probably, ha^e been 
 in young Roger's favour, but for an encounter 
 which turned the scales entirely against him, and, 
 so far as Stanfield was concerned, sealed his fate. 
 The blacksmith had turned his face homeward 
 as he approached the end of his deliberations, and 
 when he raised his eyes he saw a man approach- 
 ing whom he instinctively identified as the absent 
 rider of the white horse, for whom the lady and 
 the groom had each, in their turn, paused to look 
 before turning up the lane. The new comer was 
 evidently a stranger, not veiy sure of the way, and 
 curious about the place and the inhabitants, to 
 judge from the steadiness with which he examined
 
 46 Agnes, 
 
 into Stanfield^s personal appearance^ as tliey ap- 
 proached each other. He -was not a very imposing 
 figure in himself, being an under-sized, doubtful- 
 looking personage^ Avith his eye-glass screwed 
 tightly into his eye^ and visible indications of 
 an excitable temper in his countenance. The 
 primitive blacksmitli compassionately set down 
 to " ill-breeding^^ the stare with wliich the 
 stranger regarded him_, and gazed in his turn with 
 eyes that required no glass^ and with a little expec- 
 tation in his mind, which he would have found it 
 difficult to explain even to himself. When the 
 stranger came to a full stop just before they met, 
 the blacksmith stopped, too, by instinct ; and the 
 two stood for a moment in silence, with that 
 strange certainty of liaAdng something to do with 
 each other, which gives to enmity and anger a 
 power of identification as powerful as that of 
 love. 
 
 The stranger was the first to speak. " Are 
 you the blacksmith of Windholm ? " he asked, in 
 peremptory tones. " I have been to your house 
 to look for you. Are you — Stanmore, Stanton — 
 I forget the name ?" 
 
 " William Stanfield, at your service,^^ said the 
 blacksmith, with his usual composure of speech. 
 
 " You don't recollect me, I suppose," said the 
 little man, '^ though you must have seen me years
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 4i7 
 
 ago. I am Sir Roger Trevelyan. When you 
 hear my name^ I daresay you Avill understand 
 what I want Anth you/^ he continued, with a 
 sniff of rising wrath. He was not a man of dig- 
 nified demeanour, and the blacksmith was not 
 moved to any special sensation of awe or fright 
 by his name. 
 
 Stanfield took off his hat with natural cour- 
 tesy in acknowledgment of the self-introduction ; 
 but he put it on again, and confronted the 
 baronet calmly, without much feeling of any 
 kind. " I know Sir Eoger Trevelyan's name, as 
 stands to reason,^^ he said, with a smile, " but I 
 donH know, except it is in the way of my trade, 
 what the lord of the manor can want with the 
 blacksmith. Anyhow, I am at Sir Roger's com- 
 mands.^^ 
 
 It was this speech that occasioned the baronet's 
 first loss of temper. He turned his head away 
 for a moment, and swore a few oaths for the relief 
 of his mind under his breath; for, though Sir 
 E/Oger was far from being a wise man, he per- 
 ceived that his antagonist had him at an advan- 
 tage in the matter of temper, and did what he 
 could at the beginning to restrain himself. 
 
 " You'll know what I mean, presently,'^ he 
 said. " I have heard all about your hospitalities 
 and your pretensions, ^Ir. Blacksmith. You
 
 48 Agnes. 
 
 may be twenty times tlie village oracle^ for any- 
 tliing I care ; but I have come to put a stop to 
 your confounded impudence/^ cried Sir Koger^ 
 •breaking his feeble tether. " It is no use 
 putting on an air of innocence to me ; I know 
 exactly what you^e been about. You and your 
 
 daughter^ a low-bred, artful " 
 
 " Stop there V cried the blacksmith. '' If all's 
 true that's said, you are not the man to meddle 
 with a woman's name. Say what you've got to 
 say to me, and I'll listen in peace ; but there's no 
 man on earth, if he were a king, that shall speak 
 of her disrespectful," said the indignant father,, 
 with a sudden flush of colour. " You are a 
 stranger, and don't know what you're talking 
 about,'^ he added a moment after, regaining 
 command of himself, and looking down with 
 compassionate dignity upon the excited little 
 man before him. ^^ What is it you've got to 
 
 say?" 
 
 ^' This sort of thing won't impose upon me," 
 cried Sir Roger; ''it's all very well for your 
 audience in the village. I tell you I know 
 what you've been doing, and I've come here to 
 put a stop to it. You have inveigled my fool 
 of a son into your house, and let him play love 
 and courtship to your daughter. I shouldn't 
 mind letting him have his swing," said the little
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 49 
 
 man^ Avitli an odious look, for Avliicli, liad lie but 
 known it, lie was as nearly being knocked down 
 as ever man was. '' Other young men have done 
 as much before him ; but if you think I will 
 stand by and see Roger imeigled into a low 
 marriage ^' 
 
 " Stop there !" said Stanfield again; '^'^ passion 
 is a thing that comes on a man sudden, and I 
 wouldn't undertake to be wiser than my neigh- 
 bours. Stop there, Sir Roger. I^ii a deal 
 stronger than you arc, and I might do you some 
 harm before I kneAV." 
 
 " You threaten me !" said the baronet, in a 
 rage — " you dare to threaten me ! You've 
 played the great man among the A'illagers till you 
 think you can face out anything. But you're 
 mistaken, I can tell you. The most foolish thing 
 you ever did in your life was to set a trap for a 
 gentleman. ^ly boy is not such a fool as you 
 take him for. You want to make your daughter 
 a lady ; but I warn you, you'll only make 
 her a " 
 
 '^ Sir Roger," said the blacksmith, " I'm not 
 such a good Christian as you take me for; it's 
 not in my nature to stand silent and bear insult 
 from any man. As for your son, if he was a 
 prince, he isn't the man I would choose for my 
 child. And no more is this the place to discuss 
 
 VOL. T. E
 
 50 Agnes, 
 
 sucli tilings ; and no more are yon a fit person/' 
 cried Stanfield, witli a sudden flash of indignation 
 from liis eyes_, ^vliicli lighted np the whole scene, 
 and thrilled with real alarm his enraged com- 
 panion, " to take an innocent young woman's 
 name into your lips. I'm not yonr tenant, nor 
 I don't owe you any duty that I knoAV of, and I'm 
 a man well knoAvn, that can be found when I'm 
 wanted. Your son's comings and goings are of 
 little consequence in my house ; and I don't 
 know. Sir Roger, that there's anything more to 
 he said between you and me." 
 
 " That may be your opinion," said the baronet, 
 placing himself directly in Stanfield's way, "but it 
 is not mine. You may refuse to listen to my 
 warning about your daughter, if you please. She 
 is not the first ambitious girl that has had a 
 downfall — that's your concern. Only let me 
 tell you, my son is my concern, and if you have 
 seduced him into any engagement, or got him to 
 sign any paper " 
 
 " When a man begins to rave, good-breeding's 
 at an end," said the blacksmith, stepping aside in 
 order to pass with a quiet contempt that drove 
 Sir Roger out of his wits for the moment. 
 
 " By Jove ! I'll liaAC you indicted for con- 
 spiracy," cried the little man. '^ If you have got 
 him to sign anything, or seduced him into any
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk, 51 
 
 engagement^ mark my word;, 1^11 have you indicted 
 
 for conspiracy — I ^\^\\., by /^ cried Sir Roger, 
 
 in a state of frenzy. He sliook his little fist as 
 near as he could reach in Stanfield^s eyes, AA'ho 
 for his part looked on with compassionate amaze- 
 ment, enough to drive the baronet into actual 
 madness. 
 
 " You will do — what you can,^^ said the black- 
 smith, not without a gleam of humour in his 
 eyes, '' and so will 1'' he continued rather sadly, 
 as he turned away. He had no more heart for 
 any discussion. He groaned within liimself as 
 he left the scene of this strange encounter and 
 tm'ued his face homeward. Was it his negli- 
 gence, his carelessness, that had brought on the 
 yQYY result he most di'caded, and made the name 
 of his child a subject of discussion for such a man 
 as Sir Roger Trevelyan? The thought wounded 
 him to the heart, for he was very proud in his 
 way, and Agnes was the centre of everj^thing most 
 tender and sacred in the world to her father. 
 Hitherto neither commotion nor distui'bance had 
 been in his blameless life. "Was the tide turning 
 now, as it sometimes turns, casting light into dark- 
 ness, and order into confusion? He went home mth 
 more heaviness than he had experienced for years, 
 with a premonition in his mind of some other 
 trouble awaiting him. ^^I should have known 
 
 LIBRAT?Y 
 
 owfVEPsrrY of ilunois
 
 52 Agnes, 
 
 iDctter/^ lie said to himself^ witli almost a little 
 bitterness. What lie should have known better 
 was^ that unworthy thoughts come more naturally 
 to the common understanding than thoughts of 
 honour, innocence, and purity ; but this was a 
 knowledge which always came slowly after the 
 event to William StanfiekVs mind. 
 
 The blacksmith went home with a little in- 
 voluntary apprehension, prepared to hear some- 
 thing that would grieve him ; but the calm, 
 ordinary aspect of the house reassured him, and 
 so did his wife^s laments over her headache, and 
 the unseasonableness of his absence on this parti- 
 cular evening, when she so much wanted her tea. 
 After a while, however, his anxiety returned. 
 He thought his Agnes more silent than usual 
 as she sat working at the table, though per- 
 haps it Avas only the trouble in his own mind 
 which he transferred to her looks. He smoothed 
 with natural pride the shining braids of black 
 hair which made her little head heaw wdth their 
 weight, and looked at her slender hands so unlike 
 his OAvn, and thought for the hundredth time that 
 she might have been a princess, and that it was a 
 strange chance which gave such a daughter to 
 him. " Whom have you seen to-day, and what 
 haA'e you been doing, little one ?" he said tenderly, 
 with a tone of apology in his voice.
 
 Tlie Blacksmith's Walk. 53 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield dropped the newspaper slie 
 was reading, and looked sharply up to listen, 
 and Agnes gave a startled glance from her 
 work. 
 
 " The same as other days, father," she said, with 
 a slight faltering ; which any other day, perhaps, 
 he would not have remarked. 
 
 The words were simple enough, but after 
 they had been spoken a sudden blush, over- 
 whelming and uncontrollable, dyed her very 
 neck as she stooped over her work. "What 
 did it mean? The blacksmith^s heart sank 
 within him, with a sudden pang of surprise and 
 anguish. 
 
 " AVho should she see," said Mrs. Stanfield, 
 " but the young squire ? he's the only visitor as 
 never fails. I don^t mean to say no more about 
 it, master, and I daresay V\e said more nor 
 was wanted already ; but he's the one as never 
 fails in this house, and he should never more 
 enter this room again, if it was in my hands." 
 
 Agnes did not say anything, nor even look up 
 as her stepmother spoke. She only raised, not 
 her head, but her slender throat, still keeping her 
 face downcast, like the face of a lily. It was 
 an unconscious movement, of which few people 
 would have taken any notice ; but once more the 
 silent sign of an emotion which he had never
 
 54 Aggies, 
 
 before suspected, struck lier fatlier to tlie 
 heart. 
 
 " Hush, Sally/^ he said, with something like a 
 suppressed groan ; " the young squire is nothing 
 to us, nor we to him. He comes here to idle 
 away his time a hit. But Sir Roger has come 
 to the Hall of a sudden, and I daresay Mr. 
 Trevelyan will have other company. We can't 
 expect to see so much of him now." 
 
 " Sir Roger's come !" cried the blacksmitVs 
 wife in a sudden flutter, which her husband, 
 being othenvise engaged, did not remark. He 
 was watching how the colour gradually paled from 
 his daughter's downcast face, and how irregularly 
 her needle moved in her fingers. " That^s 
 news," cried Mrs. Stanfield. " Did you see him, 
 master ? He's been long gone from here, and 
 the Hall's a comfortless sort of a place, and he^s 
 a man as likes his little comforts : at least, so 
 Fve heard," she added, after a short interval, 
 looking up in sudden alarm. But nobody took 
 any notice of her unaccountable interest in Sir 
 Roger. " I am glad for one thing,'^ she continued 
 hastily ; " he ^von't let the young squire come 
 here no more ;" and in the midst of her own 
 excitement she cast a glance at Agnes ; out of the 
 fiery hazel eyes which, as they kindled, had set 
 her countenance ablaze. But nobody paid any
 
 The Blacksmith's Walk. 55 
 
 attention to Mrs. Stanfield. As for tlie black- 
 smith^ lie -^^as still studying witli an acliing lieart 
 tlie changing colour and trembling hands of his 
 child; and when all at once Agnes looked up in 
 his face^ her father faltered and retired from her 
 look^ like a man detected,, not knowing what 
 apology to make. 
 
 " Is there any reason why ]Mr. Trevelyan 
 should not come liere?^^ the girl asked, 
 looking at him with that steadiness and pale 
 resolution, of which he was scarcely yet aware, 
 but which Mrs. Stanfield was perfectly acquainted 
 with. He was so conscious that he had been 
 watching her, and trying to sui'prise the secret of 
 her thoughts, that this sudden question abashed 
 and confused him. He hesitated before he could 
 answer — 
 
 " Any reason ? Xo — yes. Xo reason, so far 
 as I am concerned," said the blacksmith ; " but 
 there are some folks in the world that think 
 the rich and the poor have nothing to do with 
 each other, and that Sir Koger^s son is out of 
 his place in the blacks mith^s house. ^lay be, 
 after all, they are right, little one," said Stanfield, 
 lifting his broad luminous eyes, and recovering 
 liis composure, to his daughter's face, " for things 
 look different according as you're above or below 
 them, and what's at this line of A-ision is perhaps
 
 56 Agnes. 
 
 not the best for them that view the world out of 
 the Hall windows. But now his father^s come, 
 I daresay we^ll see little more of Mr. Roger, 
 Agnes ; and it will be no great loss to you or 
 me.'^ 
 
 " No/^ said Agnes. The monosyllable was said 
 almost under her breath, but there was a thrill 
 in her voice which caught her father's ear — a new 
 tone which he could not understand. Then she 
 got up suddenly and put away her work, hovering 
 about the darker end of the room, with her back 
 towards him, while she arranged the basket which 
 contained it. When that was completed at last, 
 she came softly behind her father and leaned 
 over his shoulder to kiss him, he all the while 
 watching her with breathless but secret anxiety. 
 " Good night ! You were so long of coming in 
 that it is quite late,'' said Agnes ; and she kissed 
 him over his shoulder with a wile which he in 
 his tender heart, which was aching and yearning 
 over her, understood only too well. He suffered 
 her to go away Avithout trying to discover, what 
 she was so anxious to conceal, the secret in her 
 face. 
 
 " And so Sir Ptoger's come," said the black- 
 smith's excited Avife. " If you see him passing 
 through the village, will you tell me, master ? 
 I'd like to have a good look at him, if so be as
 
 The Blacksmith's TValk. 57 
 
 lie passed tlic Aviiiclows ; not as I care — but being 
 Mr. Ti-evelyan's fatlier and — other things/' she 
 said, faltering, with an eager glance at her hus- 
 band ; but he, for his part, was thinking of 
 something altogether different, and still took no 
 notice of her looks. 
 
 " Sir Roger is nothing to me, Sally. I don't 
 care if I never heard his name, nor his son's 
 name more. I'm tired, and I'm going upstairs," 
 said the blacksmith. His foot sounded heaAy on 
 the stair as he went to his room, and his heart 
 felt hea^T in his bosom. The future, which 
 heretofore had always spread clear and plain 
 before him, sometimes sad enough, but never con- 
 fused with complications, had suddenly clouded 
 over to his anxious eyes. All at once he per- 
 ceived that life had begun to assert its inde- 
 pendent claims on the young heart which was 
 almost all the world to him, and that his child 
 had already entered the enchanted country, full 
 of all terrors and joys, where his great love could 
 no longer go with her to defend her from e^-il. 
 For once he was glad to lay down his head and 
 sleep, or try to sleep, courting forge tfulness. He 
 did not know at the first shock how to bear this 
 visionary separation, which is the most real of 
 all partings — and the consciousness of its reality 
 went to his heart.
 
 58 Agnes. 
 
 These three could ahnost hear each other's 
 breathing in the silence of the night_, but they 
 might have been a thousand miles apart for any- 
 thing they knew of each other. In the dark^ 
 they dAvelt apart with their own thoughts,, each 
 in a throbbing world of reality^ which seemed all 
 too palpable to contain itself in silence. As for 
 Agnes^ she stood uncertain upon the verge of a 
 new existence^ not knowing whether the steady 
 earth might not crumble under her feet the 
 next moment and the sun go down long before 
 noon. Such a dreadful revolution of nature 
 was inevitable, if Roger Trevelyan went away — 
 but he could not, would not, as she thought to 
 herself in the dark with exquisite tears and pangs 
 of joy, never dreaming, poor innocent soul, that 
 had Roger been obliterated altogether, life 
 and the world would liaAC been so much the 
 better for her. As for Mrs. Stanfield, her ruder 
 and coarser orb of existence thrilled with many 
 a secret that would not bear the light — remem- 
 brances and anticipations alien in every particular 
 to her present life. But the silent niglit spread 
 her veil over all these waking hearts and closed 
 eyes, and told no tales ; and everything was 
 quiet, as sleep and safety could make it, under 
 William Stanfield's roof.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Hall, 
 
 HE Hall was not very large^ nor 
 any way imposing. It stood in the 
 midst of an irregnlar and neg- 
 lected park, where the trees had 
 been left to grow anyhow, and the grass was all 
 in mossy tnfts and ragged knolls, neither fair to 
 see nor pleasant to traverse. The family, indeed, 
 had not been seen at AYindholm in the memory 
 of man, and the young sqnire, when he first 
 made his appearance, had been looked upon as a 
 kind of natural phenomenon. The house had no 
 attractions, neither antiquity, nor l^eauty of situ- 
 ation, nor family associations, nor even com- 
 fort. It looked out solely upon that neglected 
 park, where nothing at all was visible from the 
 dull windows except a small dull pond equally in 
 bad order with the rest of the demesne, with slimy 
 banks, and choked up by forests of water- weeds. 
 The sunshine which had revealed to William
 
 60 Agnes. 
 
 Stanfield in siicli exaggerated distinctness of 
 outline tlie figure of tlie unknown lady on the 
 edge of tlie common, slied a dull red gleam, just 
 before it disappeared finally under the horizon, 
 upon the pool, on Avhicli the same lady looked 
 out through the large open windows, of what was 
 called the green drawing-room at the Hall. A 
 more disconsolate-looking room could scarcely be 
 imagined. It had the air of an apartment 
 committed for ages to the care of a housekeeper, 
 whose own room Avas ten times more important 
 in the house than this uninhabited place. The 
 carpet was so worn and bare that the pattern on 
 it, which was very large, was but faintly deci- 
 pherable, and the green hangings were at once so 
 dark and so faded as to invest the room with an 
 actual reality of gloom. An old alabaster- stand, 
 supporting something intended for a card-basket, 
 stood alone in the centre of a large table, which 
 was draped with a dingy cover. Dark bad copies 
 of old pictures were on the walls. Altogether it 
 was such a room as might tempt the cheerfulest 
 soul to suicide. The lady, who was still in her 
 riding-dress, was not bright enough in herself to 
 neutralize in any degree this offensive shabbiness. 
 She was leaning her head upon the sash of the 
 open window, holding her hat, which she had just 
 taken off, in her hand, and looking out, watched
 
 The Hall 6i 
 
 without seeing it liow the light gradually slid off 
 the slimy pool and disappeared in lingering 
 touches upon the grass, lea^-ing everything stag- 
 nant, lifeless, and melancholy behind. Year 
 after year these same i^indows must have stared 
 blankly out without any lining eyes to put per- 
 ception in them. The Avhole gaunt house and 
 lonely park seemed to gape and centre round this 
 one unusual living figure. With a slight shiver 
 she closed the window, and threw herself into a 
 chair. The fire was burning dimly^ the room was 
 cold^ bare, miserable to behold. She shrugged 
 her shoulders, and uttered an exclamation of 
 disgust. 
 
 " Not even a maid to bring one a cup of tea !" 
 said Beatrice Trevelyan. 
 
 She was of an age no longer contemptuous of 
 such accessories of comfort. She was a A^ery 
 handsome " fine woman,'' as critics of the 
 female subject say, but she was tliirty, or 
 perhaps a little more. She had failed of those 
 high spirits of youth Avhich are triumphant over 
 scene and surroundings, and though she was not 
 ill-tempered, the aspect of all this dismal back- 
 ground upset her nerves and made her cross and 
 wretched. Perhaps, when she really began to think, 
 her own thoughts were not Avithout some par- 
 ticulars of bitterness ; and thus she sat, thrown
 
 62 Agnes. 
 
 back in lier cliair, ^vithout aiiytliiiig to occupy lier 
 mind or please lier eye, while tlie light slowly 
 stole ont of the dim atmosphere and twilight 
 came into the dull room. She was waiting for 
 some one; but she was not so impatient as a 
 woman in such circumstances has a title to be. 
 She had enough to engage her thoughts, Heaven 
 knows. It Avas no very bright perspective into 
 which she looked, but, such as it was, it was all 
 her life. 
 
 She had been there about half an hour when 
 Sir Roger came in. His voice was audible before 
 he made his personal entry. He was heard in 
 the hall scolding somebody. 
 
 " Why the deuce was there not a room fit to 
 sit in ? Why the deuce was everything so faded 
 and poor? Where the devil Avas ^Ir. Tre- 
 velyan ?" 
 
 The solemn rustle of the housekeeper's curt- 
 sies, as she stood in her best silk dress facing 
 her master in the hall, at first slow and dignified, 
 but gradually rising into alarm and fright at his 
 impatience and profane language, brought a 
 languid smile to the face of Beatrice as she sat 
 quietly listening ; but Miss Trevelyan did not 
 herself feel at all called upon to interfere. She 
 sat still with perfect composure, without moving, 
 until this cheerful and encouraging accost was
 
 The Hall 63 
 
 over. It was not lier business. For anything 
 that -was going to happen^, for anything he might 
 have to tell her^ she was content to wait. AYhen 
 the door of the clraAving-room was at last thrown 
 open, and Sir Roger appeared against the fuller 
 light in the hall, his daughter still did not 
 move, but sat waiting for him without even so 
 much animation as might suffice to show him 
 in the twilight whereabouts she was. He 
 came in, peering into the dim space and 
 silence of the melancholy room, and exclaiming 
 over it — 
 
 " Miserable hole — beastly place ! What on 
 earth ever induced any man to settle here? 
 Beatrice, where the deuce are you ? Detestable 
 pigsty ! Beatrice ! Oh, you're there ! Why 
 the d couldn't you speak ?" 
 
 " You have not been successful, I see," said 
 Miss Trevelyan out of the darkness. 
 
 " How the deuce do you know I haven't been 
 successful? I have been successful. I've seen 
 
 that d humbug of a blacksmith. He's a 
 
 specimen, he is," said the baronet. " I'll tell 
 you Avhat, Beatrice, you have a great opinion of 
 your own wisdom, and you were dead against 
 coming — but if I hadn't come, I'll lay you any- 
 thing they'd have worked him up to marry the 
 girl."
 
 64 Agnes. 
 
 ^^And Avliat tlien?^' said tlie unmoved and 
 almost invisible listener in the easy-cliair. 
 
 " What then ! Hang it^ do you mean to say 
 you're such a confounded fool as not to see," 
 said Sir Roger ; " a blacksmith's daughter — a girl 
 as ignorant as — as sin — a " 
 
 " You mistake — it's innocence that's ignorant, 
 not sin/' said Miss Trevelyan. 
 
 '' By ! you're in one of your con- 
 founded tempers — but I don't care ; I've settled 
 that matter/' said her father. '^^Are we ever going 
 to have any dinner to-day? What do you mean 
 by sitting there in your riding-dress, eh? — 
 do you mean to dine like that, or to keep me 
 waiting an hour for you — which I shan't, l}y 
 Jove ! I tell you I've settled all that — Roger 
 will find himself in the wrong box if he tries to 
 master me. Wliat do you mean by turning on 
 a man ? You're deeply attached to your brother, 
 and all that, ain't you? Yes, when he don't 
 come in yom* way; but I've settled his little 
 matter, I can tell you. You all think yourselves 
 very clever, but you are neither of you a match 
 for me." 
 
 " I like my brother well enough, sir," said 
 Beatrice — " as well as I like anybody. I have 
 no hand in this, and don't know anytliing about 
 it. I daresay you've done more hann than good —
 
 The Hull 65 
 
 I always said you would ; but, at all events, 
 you^-e liad your will, and that is always some- 
 thing. I suppose there's some room in the house 
 we can dine in/' — she continued, rising, with a 
 shiver, — " as for sleeping, I would not ad\dse you 
 to build your hopes too high. There's Roger 
 coming up the avenue. You had better not 
 attack him directly about this business, if I might 
 advise.'^ 
 
 So saying she went away, rather hastily, 
 gliding through the darkness with her long 
 riding- skirt gathered up in her hands. It was 
 kindly done for once. She meant to give her 
 brother some warning before he encountered his 
 father. She drew the door of the drawing- 
 room close behind her, and paused under the 
 dull lamp which had just been lighted in the 
 hall. Her tall slight figure, with its long sweep 
 of drapery, falling close, with a grace unknoAvn to 
 any other female garment at the present era, was 
 the first thing that caught young Roger's eye, as 
 he came, with his mind full of Agnes, into the 
 dingy house. He stared at her, first with utter 
 blank wonder, then ^\•ith a presentiment of what 
 had happened. Before he could say anything, 
 she went up to him softly, holdiag up a warning 
 finger. 
 
 "We have come to look after you,^' she said, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 Agnes. 
 
 in a low tone. " Hush ! papa^s there. Keep 
 yonr temper^ Roger — lie can^t do you mucli liarm, 
 except for the moment/^ said Miss Trevelyan, 
 with involuntary^ bitterness. " I will stand by 
 you as much as I can; but keep your temper^, 
 Roger." She bent forward to kiss him as she 
 spoke ; she was quite as tall and a good deal 
 older than he was. For the moment, something 
 sisterly, motherly, was in her heart. She pressed 
 the hand of her young brother as he stood 
 amazed, scarcely knowing what he was about, 
 before her. Beatrice thus expanding, softening 
 over him — his father close by, come with obvious 
 intentions of interference — all this, combined with 
 those revelations which his heart had just been 
 making to him, confused and confounded the 
 young squire. He could make no answer, 
 except in the shape of some inarticulate questions 
 to Beatrice before she hurried away — and then 
 he paused before entering the dark drawing- 
 room, like a man about to plunge into a dangerous 
 sea. This was indeed an awakening out of 
 romance, and the sweet mystery of early love. 
 The sudden blow stunned Roger. He turned back 
 for an instant and glanced out into the darkling 
 park, with an impulse not of flight but of delay — 
 for he was not in the least prepared for such an 
 inter^dew. Keep his temper ! Well, it must be
 
 The Hall. 67 
 
 tried, at least — and making a dash into it^ lie turned 
 rapidly round and plunged into the room, where 
 his father was vapouring in the dark, waiting for 
 him, waiting for dinner, Avaiting for light and 
 comfort, and his valet, and all the natural solace- 
 ments, which were slow of coming in this dreary 
 place. Roger, with a little tremor and a little 
 disgust, which, to tell the truth, were sensations 
 natui'al to him when he encountered his father, 
 made his salutations as cordially as he could 
 manage to do. He might express his sm'prise 
 at least — his utter wonder and amazement at so 
 unexpected a "visit. " I thought you were in 
 Cornwall, sir,'' said the young man ; '^ I hope 
 there's some dinner fit to eat — we are not great 
 in cookery here. I must go and speak to Mrs. 
 Sutton and see what she can do." 
 
 " If I'm not in Cornwall, I'm in my own 
 house, I hope," said the ungracious sire. " Let 
 Mrs. Sutton alone — Be^-is has seen after that. 
 But where the deuce is my room, can you tell me? 
 
 How the does that fellow suppose I can 
 
 find my own way about this beastly place ? I 
 never was here before in my life — not since I Avas 
 a young fellow like you. Where's my room, eh ? 
 There's no bell that I can lay my hand on. 
 What does that confounded fellow Baker mean 
 by letting a place go all to sticks like this ; and 
 f2
 
 68 Agnes. 
 
 why didn^t you have your wits about you and 
 look after it ? By JoA-e, it's enough to make a 
 •man swear ; why^ it might be let and bring in so 
 much a year^, instead of going to the dogs like 
 this. I ask you where the deuce is my room ?" 
 
 "Which room is it?" said Roger, leading the 
 way with some eagerness upstairs. 
 
 '^ How the deuce can I tell which room it 
 is V said his tired and hungry parent. ^' Pretty 
 sort of thing, after a man has been exerting him- 
 self all day, to be asked which room he has in his 
 own house. Call some one, can't you ? I sup- 
 pose you've found some mode of communication 
 with the servants, eh? Oh, here's Bevis. Why 
 
 the d didn't you come and show me the 
 
 way ? Here's my son wants to know what room 
 I have — hang it, which room have I? Much 
 you seem to know about this blessed place — 
 spend all your time mooning about the village, 
 I suppose," said Sir Roger, in a lower tone, with 
 an angry glance at his son. " We'll talk about 
 that after dinner;" and with these comforting 
 words the baronet retired to his apartment, where 
 Bevis, who was his master's faithful slave, had 
 provided for his comforts as well as was possible. 
 Roger could still hear the lessening fire of com- 
 plaint and exclamation as he stood for a moment 
 to take breath outside the closed door. Then he
 
 The Hall. 69 
 
 went away with a clouded face to cliange liis 
 dress. Altogether this had been an exciting day 
 to the young squire. His love had forced itself 
 upon his consciousness without any will of his 
 own. This morning it had been but a vague at- 
 mosphere of delight and longing which surrounded 
 him. Now he knew what it meant — that perpe- 
 tual recurrence of Agnes^s name and looks in 
 his heart, and the discovery had not been one of 
 unmitigated pleasure. To find out suddenly, as 
 he had done, in the course of his walk home, that 
 the happiness of his life, according to his young 
 belief, was in the hands of the blacksmiths 
 daughter, was naturally, when he came to put it 
 into words, something of a shock to Koger. But 
 shock though it was, it Avas true, beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt ; and many a troubled yet 
 delicious meditation had possessed the young 
 man's mind as he came slowly home in the 
 twilight to the deserted Hall. What he had met 
 on arriving here had driven all the delight away, 
 and brought back the trouble tenfold. He saw what 
 was coming upon him, and, what was worse even 
 than his father's rage and coarse remonstrances, 
 he saw the real grievance of the matter, and that 
 this time Sir Roger had an unquestionable right 
 to interfere. The poor youth Avent to his own 
 room sighing like furnace, feeling to the bottom
 
 70 Agnes. 
 
 of liis lieart tliat it was a foors paradise in wliich 
 lie had been Avandering, and tliat now his terrible 
 dilemma had come home to him. Had Sir 
 Roger come but one day earlier^ his son would 
 have met him with comparative calmness. It 
 was only now — only in this walk home — only in 
 this last interview, that the poor young fellow 
 had found himself out. And w^hat was he to do ? 
 Agnes was peerless — a bride for a king ; but 
 alas ! the blacksmiths daughter of Windholm was 
 not a wife for Sir Roger Trevelyan^s son, as the 
 young Oxford man knew but too well. If he 
 was a goose, as WiUiam Stanfield said, he was an 
 honourable one, pure in his mind and thoughts,, 
 little as he owed to training or example. To leave 
 her would be like rending soul from body ; but 
 something in his heart told him it was his duty 
 to leave her; to tear himself from the sweet 
 delight of her presence — to get far away from 
 that one fair garden in the desert-world, which 
 contained her. His heart sank and sank till it 
 seemed to lie within him like a stone. But a faint 
 gleam of sublime duty flickered dimly on his firma- 
 ment. He felt as if he could do it for her sake — 
 could part himself from light and hope, and every 
 joy on earth — that so, perhaps, she might never 
 find out the sweet precipice, on the edge of which 
 they had both been dallying. Such was the
 
 The Hall, 71 
 
 heiglit of vii'tue_, of wliicli, witli silent anguisli, 
 young Roger felt himself capable^ as lie dressed 
 for dinner that eventful evening. There were no 
 lights nor any kind of comfort in his room_, the 
 sudden arrival of the baronet having turned 
 everything upside down in the house; but the 
 darkness and the absence of the usual solacements 
 were a kind of consolation to the poor young- 
 fellow. To be permitted to feel entirely miserable 
 and to ignore all possible alleviations is a comfort 
 in the first troubles of youth.
 
 
 ^c 
 
 ^^S^ 
 
 
 
 
 [^T^^S 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^M 
 
 !^£'^S 
 
 ^ 
 
 iM 
 
 ^^S 
 
 ^^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Beatrice. 
 
 IISS TREVELYAN was of a very dif- 
 ferent mind. She liad brought no 
 maid -with her on this hurried 
 journey; there was no one^ as she 
 had sighed downstairs, who had even so much 
 common thoughtfulness as to bring the poor 
 lady a cup of tea. She had no time to go 
 leisurely about her toilette, nor to rest after her 
 fatigues, but must make a rush at it — must un- 
 pack her things with her own hands, and get her- 
 self into her dress forthwith. The room was dark 
 and heavy, oppressed with curtains, which Beatrice, 
 having lately taken a slight sanitary turn, could 
 not endure, and which certainly added much to the 
 ghostly, dark, damp aspect of the great gloomy 
 apartment, where all the furniture was faded, as 
 was the case throughout the Hall. Two candles 
 on the dressing-table, throwing a kind of dark 
 radiance into the glass, was all the light there was ; 
 and the fire sputtered and hissed in a vain attempt
 
 Beatrice. 73 
 
 to kindle tlie gi'een wood witli wliicli some igno- 
 rant hands had ti'ied to light it. ^liss Tre- 
 velyan had no overwhelming misery in hand 
 to blind her to those little details of discomfort ; 
 she had only her unsatisfactory life^ in which 
 there was little that it was pleasant to look upon. 
 Her heart was hea^y, too ; but it was a kind of 
 heaviness very different from that which had 
 plucked poor Roger^s down out of the sky into 
 those fathomless abysses. Beati-ice's heart was 
 always hea^y — it felt like a stone, let her do what 
 she would ; she was used to that half-physical, 
 half- spiritual sensation, which she earned with 
 her through many amusements, and even through 
 various cii'cumstances in themselves exciting 
 enough. She was unhappy without knowing why ; 
 just as some people are happy in equal ignorance 
 of the cause — and, like those happier souls, had 
 ceased to thinlv of it, or to wonder why it was. It 
 was her natural and inevitable condition. Her 
 mind was a little roused, a little softened, to- 
 night. She was soiiy for her young brother, 
 whose present position recalled to her the dor- 
 mant romance which every woman has somehow 
 in her mind. Beatrice, too, had once been in 
 love, and ready to commit herself, and forget her 
 position, and relinquish her better prospects and 
 marry a poor man ; or at least so she imagined. It
 
 74 Agnes. 
 
 was Sir E,oger^ of course, who prevented it, and 
 there was nobody who did not applaud him, for that 
 act at least, of his not praiseworthy life. It was a 
 long time ago, and Miss Trevelyan had outlived 
 that trifling occurrence — long outlived it ; she had 
 even ceased to think of it for years, and would 
 have been quite content to marry two or three 
 times over, had all gone well. But still at moments 
 of special bitterness it returned to her, and she was 
 able to indulge in the sentiment of disappointment, 
 and to say to herself that her life and happiness 
 had been shipwrecked upon that early rock — 
 which was not true, she knew, yet Avas true in its 
 fashion, and was a kind of comfort to her. She 
 would have been thinking of that at the present 
 crisis if she had not been so much worried and 
 bothered by the unpacking of the little valise which 
 contained her dress. It was a great nuisance, and 
 gave a sharp edge and pungency to the quiet, sombre, 
 unresisted unhappiness, which was her usual con- 
 dition. So very different was it with her in the 
 experience and maturity of her life, and with 
 Koger in his young despair and anguish. After all^ 
 there was not more than nine or ten yearsMifference 
 between them; but in such a life as that of Beatrice 
 ten years might have counted for a century. 
 
 Things modified a little when the housekeeper 
 appeared to offer her assistance, carrying, after all.
 
 Beatrice. 75 
 
 tlie cup of tea wliicli Miss Trevelyan wanted so 
 mucli. Beatrice tlu-ew lierseif into a cliair ex- 
 hausted, and not very amiable, though a certain 
 grace of high-breeding, more natural than acquired, 
 prevented her from showing any temper to the 
 woman, who rustled about in her silk gown, and 
 was inclined, after a long independent reign, to be 
 perhaps rather more friendly than obsequious. 
 Miss Trevelyan put on her dressing-go^Nii and 
 loosed out her hair, and looked with longing eyes 
 at the sofa, where, however, she could not lie 
 down just now, to keep Sir Roger waiting for 
 dinner. Her hair was light-brown, not so abim- 
 dant as it once had been, wonderfully soft, and 
 light, and feathery ; hair that had no weight nor 
 substance in it, but floated in light clouds, with a 
 beauty of its own. The face it shaded was a 
 remarkable one : high but delicate features, 
 a slightly aquiline nose, lips beautiful, but 
 somewhat pale and somewhat thin — all took 
 marks of age more distinct than simpler beauty 
 is subject to. Her eyes were grey in this dim 
 light — light-grey, not very noticeable, except that 
 the brows contracted over them with a slight 
 pucker as they looked into the darkness, and gave 
 them a certain aspect of intentness ; but in the 
 daylight and the sunshine Beatrice Trcvclyan^s 
 eyes had been the subject of many a trope and
 
 76 Agnes. 
 
 metaphor. Tliey were the colour of lights many 
 an admiring yoice had said^, and the description 
 was time — a histroiis golden-grey^ a tint so strange 
 that description might easily glide from beauty to 
 deformity in endeavouring to explain their power. 
 They had^, indeed^ been called cat^s-eyes by the 
 envious^ though no greater blunder could have 
 been made. When she was pleasantly excited, 
 they shone like pure translucent orbs of gold, or 
 embodied simshine. If it had ever happened to 
 Beatrice Trevelyan to be happy, they would have 
 been glorious, those strange eyes of light; as it 
 was, in the dark, in the fatigue and dulness of 
 this hasty unwilling toilette, they subsided into 
 grey eyes, light in hue, but intent in gaze, with 
 a pucker over each delicate brow. 
 
 " Fve done the best I could for dinner, 
 ma^am,^-' said the housekeeper ; " it was such 
 short notice. Mr. Be vis says as master, I mean 
 Sir Roger, is awful particular — but I said that 
 jNIiss Trevelyan, as looked a kind lady, would 
 perhaps say a word for us — as Ave was hiu'ried 
 like, and had no time.^' 
 
 " I daresay it will do very well,'^ said Beatrice. 
 
 " It comes so strange — it makes a body feel so 
 strange," said the housekeeper, "never to set 
 eyes on one o^ the family, and then all of a 
 sudden to have ^em all come home ; you can^t
 
 Beatrice. 77 
 
 tliink, ma^aiii;, you as are a lady^, and ain^t likely 
 to enter into our feelin^s^ wliat a queer feel it 
 has. But I suppose it^s all along o^ young master, 
 and thinking, as was natural, that he^d be mop- 
 ing at the Hall V 
 
 To this Miss Trevelyan made no answer. She 
 was brushing her hair, and the light waves, 
 moved even by her breath, and by the air that stole 
 through the large cold room, floated all about 
 and over her face. 
 
 " But a young gentleman seldom mopes, as far 
 as I can see '' said Mrs. Sutton, confidentially, as 
 she laid out the gloves, the scarf, and the hand- 
 kerchief which Miss Trevelyan^s maid had 
 arranged in symmetrical order as her mistress 
 would want them. " It ain^t like a lady, ma^am. 
 Lord bless you, there's always amusement o' one 
 kind or another to be had about a village ; 
 there's the three Miss Foxes at the Cedars 
 wouldn't have spared no pains, if the young 
 master had taken to tJiem — but gentlemen is 
 capricious. They'll please their fancy, they will ; 
 it don't matter where they go. I'm as glad as 
 I can be, though I'm only a servant, that you, 
 ma'am, and Sir Boger has come to the Hall." 
 
 " What time is dinner ?" asked Beatrice, 
 quietly. 
 
 This question had a wonderful effect upon the
 
 78 Agnes. 
 
 communicative housekeeper. She grew red, she 
 became confused, she stopped short all at once in 
 the stream of disclosures which had just begun. She 
 had meant to tell Roger^s sister all aboiit the black- 
 smiths daughter, and the danger into which that 
 deceitful creature was inveigling the dear young 
 gentleman ; but Mrs. Sutton, good woman, was 
 totally unaccustomed to fine company and did not 
 understand the perfect lady-like calm with which 
 Miss Trevelyan ignored all she had been saying. 
 With a flush and tremor the good woman an- 
 swered briefly, " Half-past seven," as she spread 
 out the dress, which was scarcely so fine as her 
 own, upon the bed. 
 
 " Then there is not a minute to spare,^' said 
 the courteous mistress. " Will you give me my 
 dress, Mrs. Sutton, please ? — I am quite ready. 
 If we stay over to-morrow, let it be at seven — 
 that is always Sir Roger's hour," said Miss 
 Ti'cvelyan, blandly. The housekeeper did what 
 service was required of her after this in afii'onted 
 silence, and swept forth out of the room, when 
 Beatrice's gentle " thank you, that will do," 
 dismissed her, with sentiments anything but 
 dutiful. Miss Trevelyan, who was not too sen- 
 sitive to other people's feelings, did not waste a 
 moment thinking of the discomfiture of her 
 attendant. She took up one of the candles and
 
 Beatrice. 79 
 
 ^ent to the large dark mirror^ wliich failed to 
 derive anything but a twilight glimmer of illumi- 
 nation from the scanty light in the room^ and 
 looked at herself anxiously in it, a look not of 
 self- admiration but of curious, intent spectator- 
 ship. She looked at herself as though she were 
 saying : — " Beatrice Trevelyan is growing old 
 very fast — she is going off, poor thing ! It is 
 such a pity that she is not married/^ Such 
 w^as the expression of her eyes as she looked 
 with characteristic intentness and with that 
 anxious pucker in her forehead into the glass, 
 which revealed her dimly in her tall and fine 
 proportions, with the dress which she felt to be 
 shabby, and the face which she knew to be fad- 
 ing. Every day she made that same inspection 
 — and perhaps, if she had but known it, those 
 daily gazings, intent and serious, deepened the 
 lines which, with a closer inspection, she noted 
 every day in her own face. 
 
 And then she dropped again into her chair 
 for the few spare minutes she had, and by means 
 of Roger guided herself back to the long-buried 
 romance of her own youth, which with a little 
 harmless self-deception she could persuade her- 
 self had broken her heart and taken away her 
 interest in life. But unfortunately, from that 
 the passage was easy to the real shadow of
 
 80 Jgnes. 
 
 Beatrice Trevelyan^s existence. Slie was not a 
 saintly ;, heart-broken maiden, losing once and no 
 more ; she was a woman of very imperfect educa- 
 tion, high spirit, and some ambition, who knew 
 to the bottom of her heart that her only chance 
 for life — for such a life as she thought worth 
 having — lay in marriage. But who would many 
 Sir Roger Trevelyan^s daughter ? She smiled 
 an indignant scornful smile which expanded her 
 pale lip painfully as she recalled the words she 
 had said to her brother — " He can only harm 
 you for a time.'^ He had harmed Beatrice all 
 her life. Good men had stood aloof from 
 the disreputable baronet^ s child; young fools 
 whom she despised, and ^ile men whom she was 
 woman enough to hate, had courted her favour; 
 once or twice, when the heavens seemed to 
 smile, her father^ s reputation or presence had 
 come in again like an ugly shadow between her 
 and a better fate. She was fully sensible of this 
 bitterness of her life, but she did not leave him 
 nor think of leaA'ing him, notwithstanding. He 
 had a respect for his daughter which he had for 
 nobody else in the world ; and she perhaps, 
 with all her sense of wrong, with all her indig- 
 nation, with the sensible blight upon her which 
 came from him, still after a kind loA'ed her father, 
 who, except young Roger, a boy whom she had
 
 Beatrice. 81 
 
 never mucli noticed_, was all slie had in tlie 
 world. 
 
 But^now and then^to think of it all was veiynear 
 too much for Miss Trevelyan. It was so to-niglit^ 
 as she sat waiting for the dinner-bell^ resolved not 
 to go downstairs till the last moment. Recol- 
 lections of one time and another, when that 
 shabby figure had come between her and evei'\'- 
 thing that made it worth while to live, rose 
 bitterly upon her heart. What could Roger's 
 wrongs ever be to hers ? Her father's appearance 
 had quenched the incipient love more than once 
 or t^vice in the breast of an honourable man, to 
 Avhom Beatrice Trevelyan would have made a true 
 wife, had it been so ordered. It was not a hisrh 
 ^dcAv, certainly, of a woman's heart or hopes ; but 
 it was true that there were two or three in the 
 past — as indeed there might even yet be some in 
 the future — whose appearance had quickened in the 
 mind of Beatrice all those thrills of ambition and 
 hopes of advancement, which, if she had been a 
 man, she might haA'e carried out in more legiti- 
 mate ways. It was not mercenary hope, cither, 
 poor soul — it was advancement to a better life, 
 and not simply to greater wealth or rank. It 
 was even a solace to the woman's pride in her 
 that she had refused various suitors among her 
 father's associates, who ofiered sullied names to 
 
 VOL. I, G
 
 82 Agnes. 
 
 lier acceptance. But necessity was desperate in 
 Ler case. Since slie was a girl, slie had been 
 aware that she must marry, if she was to be any- 
 how delivered from the atmosphere in which she 
 found herself. She still knew the same necessity nn- 
 changed, though she was no longer a girl. Some 
 people would describe Beatrice as an old maid going 
 back upon her disappointments. Poor soul ! it 
 was comforting to her heart to fall back when she 
 could upon that old piece of girlish sentiment, and 
 to think, if her first love had not been thwarted, 
 what a different life hers might have been ! But 
 that was not the real grievance which made her 
 heart bitter within her. When she heard the 
 dinner-bell she got up and moved away through 
 the dim room, not without another glance at 
 the dark surface of the glass; not that she 
 cared for her appearance then or there — only 
 because it was her habit, and because she never 
 could refrain from that silent inquiry, out of 
 which so little comfort could be got. The mirror 
 kept teUing her, like a pretentious and unseason- 
 able preacher, that her autumn was waning, 
 and that she was growing old ; but, disagreeable 
 as was the response, she never could help repeat- 
 ing the question — a question much too profound 
 for vanity, and involving all that was most 
 serious in her life.
 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 you are s 
 
 After Dinner. 
 
 OU douH know what you arespeaking^ 
 of^ sir. I beg your pardon, father, 
 I mean no disrespect; but I tell 
 you, you don^t know who or Avhat 
 :ing of. For Heaven^s sake, say no 
 more !" cried Roger, with such a flush of shame 
 and outraged love and wounded pride as scorched 
 the young man's cheeks. He was boiling over 
 with indignation and misery, but, ^dth all the 
 force he could put upon himself, was endea- 
 vouring to keep his passion down. 
 
 ^' Don^t talk such confounded nonsense to me," 
 said Sir Roger. '- Hang it, I knew it all before 
 you were born. You can't say Pm a hard 
 overseer, or one that stops you of a little 
 amusement; on the contrary, I tell you this 
 
 girl " 
 
 " And I tell you," cried the young man in 
 desperation, ^^ that I will hear nothing more. 
 g2
 
 84 Agnes. 
 
 Have you no pity — no — no shanic^ sir? My 
 sister is in the house — that ought to be enough ; 
 not to say that you are insulting a creature — of 
 Avhom I dare not trust myself to speak/' cried 
 poor Roger ; " of Avhom you canH form any con- 
 ception. No more, no — I cannot hear any more. 
 My sister is in the house/' 
 
 " AVhat the deuce has your sister to do "v^ith 
 it 1" said the baronet. ^^ I never said you were 
 to bring her here. Beatrice has seen a good 
 deal in her time, by Jove she has ! She knows 
 better than a milksop like you. Why, I suppose 
 you must have your day, like the rest of us. I 
 don't Avant to be hard upon you. I can't pre- 
 tend to be an example, my boy, and you know 
 it, so I never take up the preaching line ; but if 
 
 you let yourself be inveigled into any d d 
 
 folly, sir," said Sir Roger, striking the table with 
 his hand ; " if you commit yourself and your 
 family, and give a confounded set of beggars 
 any power over you — as it's my opinion you're on 
 the eve of doing — if you prove yourself such a 
 deuced idiot, there's an end of any intercourse 
 betAveen you and me. By Joac, you shall suifer 
 
 for it ! By , sir, I tell you, you shall rue 
 
 your folly. Not a penny of my money shall go 
 to support King Cophetua. But take it in a 
 different light," said the worthy baronet, lowering
 
 Aftar Dinner. 85 
 
 his voice ; iirid lie proceeded to enlarge upon tlie 
 subject in a way which drove his unfortunate 
 hearer half mad with terror and raj^e. 
 
 The interview was prolonged so much beyond 
 what Beatrice expected, that_, sitting alone in the 
 gloomy_, ghostly drawing-room, and being well aware 
 of Sir Roger's habits. Miss Trevelyan was struck with 
 pity for her young brother, who had been absent 
 for a long time, and had not become accu>stomed to 
 all the odious particulars of those evening sittings. 
 She wrapt her shawl round her, and went and 
 tapped at the door of tlj(^ dining-room; tlien^ 
 receiving no answer, opened it. 
 
 " Come outside with your cigars — it is a beau- 
 tiful night," she said; but stopped short in her 
 invitation, involuntarily arrested by what she 
 saw. 
 
 Sir Roger was sitting over his w^ine, 
 which had already begun to tell upon him, 
 talking incessantly, babbling without being con- 
 scious, apparently, of any interruption. It was 
 his own vile experiences which the wretched 
 father had entered into, his potations having 
 loosened his tongue, and confused his brain 
 sufficiently, to make him forget that it was his 
 son to whom he was speaking. Roger, for 
 his part, had got up and stood with his hand 
 grasping the back of his chair, waiting for an
 
 86 Agnes. 
 
 opportunity to say something wliicli that hideous 
 tipsy monologue left him no room for. When 
 he saw his sister he gave a ^dolent starts and 
 waved his hand to her with an imperative 
 commanding gesture. 
 
 " Go away, Beatrice, go away !" he cried, 
 violently. 
 
 At this sudden sound the baronet looked up. 
 
 " Oh, it's Beatrice, is it ? let her come in. 
 She don^t mind,'' he said, with a detestable tipsy 
 smile. " She agrees with me in every word I 
 say.'' 
 
 Young Roger turned round and swept out 
 upon his Avondering, watching sister, whose 
 curiosity was much roused and sharpened by the 
 scene, like some indignant youthful angel, as she 
 thought. And even Beatrice felt herself startled 
 into a horror and disgust more lively than she 
 imagined herself capable of feeling for any 
 wickedness. He grasped her by the arm and 
 thrust her out of the room, and shut the door 
 behind him with nervous violence. 
 
 " Thank Heaven !" he exclaimed, with a long 
 groan out of his very heart, turning to the open hall 
 door, from which came a fresh gust of out-door air. 
 
 The young man seized an outer coat, which 
 hung on a stand. He wanted no company just 
 then, but only to rush out into the pure air, and
 
 After Dinner. 87 
 
 wasli away those liorrible suggestions in the 
 silence of the night; l3nt he would not leave 
 his sister at the door. 
 
 "Don't go back to the drawing-room^ Beatrice/' 
 said Roger^ "don't wait for — for him. He's 
 taken too much wine, I suppose. Go to your 
 own room. Go to bed. Don't listen to any of 
 his talk. He doesn't seem to know Avliat he's 
 saying to-night." 
 
 As Beatrice looked into his pale, indignant 
 face, it almost appeared to her for the moment 
 that here was a brother who might stand by and 
 deliyer a poor woman such as she. She looked 
 at him wistfully as he stood urging her to go 
 upstairs, and evidently longing to get out and 
 away from her. Then she tied her handkerchief 
 over her head, and drew her shawl closer round 
 her, and took his arm with a sense of affection- 
 ateness which she had scarcely felt before in her 
 life. 
 
 " 1 will go out with you, Roger, first," she 
 said — " it is a lovely night — and I do so want to 
 speak to you. ; he'll go to sleep now — he always 
 does. Don't be afraid for me; he never does 
 anything worse than swear in my presence. 
 What's the matter, dear? — Roger, you and I 
 scarcely know each other — but I am your sister 
 all the same. It would do me good, perhaps, i
 
 88 Agnes. 
 
 you were to take me into your confideuce. \Tlirit 
 is all this about ?^^ 
 
 After a long silence — " I can^t tell you/' said 
 Roger, abruptly, " Nothing is the matter — never 
 mind — Sir Roger's conversation won't bear 
 repeating/-' said the brother to the sister — and 
 then there followed a stifled exclamation of rage 
 and indignation. Beatrice did not know what 
 her father had been saying; but it was not 
 difficult to jump at the conclusion that it had 
 been something too offensive to be borne. 
 
 " Never mind that/' she said, softly — " I want 
 to hear about yourself. Something has happened 
 — you may safely tell me, Roger — if I can help 
 you I will; and if I can't, nobody shall ever hear 
 of it again." 
 
 So by degrees she won him to open his heart. 
 When he had once begun to speak, the flood came 
 fully, without stint or reserve. It was a comfort 
 to be able to show how deeply injured and in- 
 sulted he was — how he had been making up his 
 mind to sublime self-sacrifice v/hen his father 
 attacked him on the subject in a way which 
 Roger could not describe. They walked up 
 and down upon the dew grass, under the 
 faint stars, talking softly, confidentially, as 
 any brother and sister might. They had a 
 long consultation, interesting and perhaps
 
 After Dinner. 89 
 
 comforting to both; but yet there ^as one 
 particular which chilled Roger^, and irritated him 
 he could scarcely tell how. He had told his 
 sister about Agnes — all her loveliness, her grace- 
 fulness, her entire superiority to the circumstances 
 around her, and how she knew nothing of his 
 love, and how he had made up his mind never to 
 woimd her tender heart by the discovery, but to 
 go away while yet she had not found it out. 
 This he said, perhaps, hoping that Beatrice being 
 a woman, might be romantic and conti'adict him 
 somehow in this settled purpose of his. Beatrice 
 was full of sympathy, but she took it all for 
 granted in the most matter of fact way. It never 
 seemed to occur to her as possible that any other 
 conclusion could come ; it was the natural and 
 only thing to do ; though she was as sorry for him 
 as if he had lost a great deal of money, or met 
 with any other great misfortune which neces- 
 sitated an instant change of life. As they 
 walked up and down, talking it all over, Roger's 
 heart rebelled more and more with every sympa- 
 thetic word his sister addressed to him. The 
 more pitifully she talked of this folly which was 
 over and ended, the more his strong, young, 
 hitherto uncontradicted energy set in the other 
 direction. He was first saddened and then 
 roused and irritated by the unalterable character
 
 90 Agnes, 
 
 with wliicli slie seemed to iiivest his hasty heroical 
 purpose of self-sacrifice. After all^ was it so very 
 pertain that he miist go away ? Finally, Beatrice 
 did him more harm than even his father had done. 
 She left him with a sisterly kiss and warm 
 pressure of his hand, saying, as any sensible 
 AYoman would, that he Avas still young, and that 
 hard as it was, he w ould get over it, and be very 
 glad that he had courage to withdraw at once 
 and do what was right. She left him calmed, 
 as she thought, to smoke his cigar, and perhaps 
 indulge in a few fond sad thoughts of the ^dllage 
 beauty, from whom in his high principle he was 
 about to flee; but in reality she left him in a state 
 of restrained impatience and resentment, w ith new 
 impulses of rebellion in his heart, chafing at the 
 cold wisdom which would bind him to such a 
 sacrifice. All very well for Beatrice — w^hat did 
 she know about it ? It was so easy to bid 
 another give up all the light and joy of life for 
 the sake of duty. Duty ! — was it duty ? — and 
 then ensued all those questionings in which every 
 mind which takes time to deliberate in the face of 
 a great danger, loses itself and its certainties. 
 It was in this state of endless angry self- argu- 
 ment, sometimes Avorking himself up to hasty 
 resolves of passion, sometimes going back for a 
 moment to see the truth, and again chafing
 
 After Dinner, 91 
 
 wildly over his father's insulting advice^ and that 
 yity of his sister which never contemplated the 
 possibility of any happier alternative — that yonng 
 Roger spent the night ; the same night on which 
 Agnes^ momentarily chilled by the thought that 
 he might go away_, was lying awake in the dark^ 
 feeling, in a sweet glow of faith and certainty, 
 that he would not — could not. Such was the 
 difference between the man and the woman — or 
 rather between the youth already tossed about 
 between duty and his heart's desire, and the girl 
 who knew as yet no complications in the harmony 
 of her life.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Blacksmith's Resolution, 
 
 IR ROGER got up late next morning, 
 as was his custom, and Beatrice and 
 her brother breakfasted together in 
 a restraint and silence which she 
 thought strange enough after the affectionate 
 confidence of last night. Perhaps Miss Trevelyan 
 had never known what it was to love anybody 
 with the abandon of youth. Certainly, had it 
 been possible for her to permit her affections to 
 ])e engaged by anyone in the position of William 
 Stanfield's daughter, she would have cut the 
 knot, as soon as she discovered it, with unflinching 
 steadiness. Such a connexion was simply im- 
 possible, and accordingly she did not understand 
 the injured, sullen, resentful look which sat upon 
 her brother's face and characterised his manner. 
 She did not understand that her very acquiescence 
 in his decision, her acceptance of it as a matter 
 of course, was gaU and bitterness to poor Roger,
 
 The Blacksmiths Resolution. 93 
 
 who^ tlie more slie ignored it^ turned the more to 
 a happier alternative^ and began to think it pos- 
 sible in proportion as she pnt her sympathetic 
 seal npon its impossibility. Be^is brought them 
 ^ord^ Tvhen they had finished breakfast^ that Sir 
 Roger meant to leave the Hall after luncheon. 
 He and ^liss Trevelyan had been visiting at 
 somebody^ s house not very far off, though the 
 yoimg squire was unaware of their vicinity, 
 and there they were now to return. When Roger 
 heard this, he took leave of his sister. " I don^t 
 want to see him again/^ said the young man — '' no 
 good coidd come of it, Beatrice. Good-bye ! I'll 
 write to you. There won^t be very much to tell, 
 I daresay; but Til write." 
 
 ^^And you'll leave the Hall to-day, Roger?'' 
 said Miss Trevelyan. 
 
 " Where shall I go V he asked with sup- 
 pressed indignation and sullenness. 
 
 "Anywhere, dear — any place that will be 
 amusing,'' said his sister, soothing him. " You 
 might go up to town, or go and see some of your 
 friends. There is Fred Pendarves, Avho always was 
 so fond of you — but to be sure he is in Parliament, 
 and has a great deal to do. Ah! I wish you were in 
 Parliament, Roger ; it would give you some occu- 
 pation. But you know there are plenty of people who 
 would be glad to have you. There arc some nice
 
 94 Agnes. 
 
 people at the Horsleys^, wliere we are staying; 
 but I daresay you would not like to go there. I 
 think you had much better go to town. It must 
 be getting pleasant now; and poor Fred Pen- 
 darves will be so glad to see you. Good-bye — 
 God bless you ! You^ll be sure to wT-ite and 
 tell me where you are?^^ 
 
 "Yes/^ said the young squire^ who had no 
 benediction to bestow. He left her immediately,, 
 and went out with a dull resentment in his heart. 
 What did it matter where he went? — anywhere 
 that would amuse him ! — that was all that even 
 Beatrice, Avho was a woman, and might know 
 better, could recommend to him. He wandered 
 about in a furtive, aimless way, always pondering, 
 deliberating, making up his mind that he really 
 must leave the Hall to-day, with a mental reserva- 
 tion behind, which he kept out of his own sight 
 with natural timidity until he had seen Sir Roger 
 and Beatrice ride off, with Bevis behind them, upon 
 their long ride to Horsley Park. Then it turned 
 out that it was just about his usual hour for going 
 down to the village. For the last time. It 
 would be uncivil to William Stanfield, who was 
 a natural gentleman, to go away without saying 
 good-bye ; it would be rude to Agnes. And so 
 the young man set out, not without a breathless, 
 vague imagination that something might happen
 
 The Blacksmith's Resolution. 95 
 
 to delay the clepartiu-e upon Trliich he had resolved 
 — ^yes, resolved — that is_, if nothing came in 
 the way. 
 
 And eveiything looked so precisely the same as it 
 had done yesterday! the common expanding just as 
 before with its early gorse blossoms to the sun — the 
 boys playing cricket just the same — the common 
 incidents of the tillage identical with the incidents 
 of yesterday ; yet he felt his breath come short as 
 he drew near the house^, and as soon as he came 
 within sights put up his glass to his eye^ being 
 shortsighted like his father and sister^ to see 
 whether there was anything in its aspect to cor- 
 respond -with the change in himself. Had the 
 blinds been all down_, and the lively of death 
 upon the house,, it would scarcely have siu-prised 
 Roger. The wonder was that it should look just as 
 usualj and that absolutely nothing had happened 
 anywhere to make any show upon the face of 
 the earth. Only he was changed. The windows 
 were open^ the white curtains fluttering, the sun 
 just beginning to gleam sidelong along the front 
 of the house, upon which at sunset it shone so 
 full. There was even, he thought, a figui-e to be 
 discovered working at the parlour- window. His 
 heart yearned over that faint outline — poor foolish 
 fellow ! Would she care ? Would it cloud her 
 face or dim her sweet looks to learn that he came
 
 96 Agnes. 
 
 to say good-hyc? — and if it did_, what then? 
 He went on a little faster to the familiar 
 door. 
 
 But nnder the archway — a strange sight to see 
 in the working day — William Stanfield himself 
 was standing. Roger^s heart beat higher when 
 he caught sight of the blacksmith standing sen- 
 tinel at his own door. Here^ at leasts was another 
 visible symptom of change. His steps slackened 
 again in spite of himself. He did not know 
 what he could say in case the blacksmith ad- 
 dressed him on this subject, which was a thing 
 he had never anticipated. As he came slowly 
 across the village green^ with the natural awkward- 
 ness of a man who feels himself for a long time 
 exposed to the full gaze of the person he is going 
 to seC; his last night^s prudent thoughts came 
 back to him oddly enough, just at the moment 
 when their recurrence was painful. To meet the 
 blacksmith^ s broad open gaze, just as he began to 
 recollect that, love or no love, the blacksmith's 
 daughter was no mate for him, was hard upon 
 an inexperienced spirit ; for the youth could no 
 more help looking up to William Stanfield than 
 he could help perceiving that the blacksmith was 
 bigger, stronger, altogether in point of nature a 
 more notable personage than himself. Almost 
 Roger Trevelyan would have withdrawn if he
 
 The BlacksmitWs Resolution, 97 
 
 •could from tlie encounter. But it Tvas not so 
 to be. 
 
 " Good morning/' said the blacksmitli ; " I 
 came out to have a bit of talk with you^ INIr. 
 Trevelyan. It's not my custom to mind what 
 folks say ; but I'm given to understand there are 
 more prudent ways o' workings and a man's never 
 too old to learn." 
 
 " Do you mean it's more prudent not to admit 
 me ?" cried Iloger_, jumping at the heart of the 
 matter with involuntary temerity. He felt himself 
 turned back with such an irresistible moral force 
 as the blacksmith turned away from that door, 
 always up to this time so hospitably oj)en to 
 him. 
 
 " Well^ perhaps that's the plain English of it/' 
 said William Stanfield, with his slow smile^ in 
 whichj however^ there was a little troul^le; ^^ that is^ 
 not meaning what I think myself, but what other 
 people think^ Mr. Trevelyan. When a man's 
 left to puzzle out things by himself, he don't 
 always fall into the beaten way ; but I'm not 
 clear but what the beaten way's the safest for 
 most folks' feet. Not meaning to be unkind or 
 uncivil/' said the blacksmith_, turning upon the 
 young man when they were fairly out of the 
 village green upon the outskirts of the common, 
 ^' though what I've got to say may seem so. I'm 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 Agnes. 
 
 very glad to see you in my house — and so are all 
 tlierc_," lie added^ as if in an unconscious paren- 
 tliesis^ " but when you come to think of it_, the 
 blacksmith^s house ain^t the place for the squire's 
 son. I don't know why, for my part, seeing we 
 want nothing of you — nor you of us/^ said the 
 blacksmith, looking steadily, with a little em- 
 phasis, in Roger's face, " except converse and 
 good company ; but so it is, according to most 
 folks' ways of thinking ; and wishing you every 
 good, Mr. Trevelyan, and feeling I'm a fool to do 
 such a thing as this, I must ask you not to come 
 to my house any more." 
 
 " Not to come — any more ? " repeated Roger, 
 who was struck dumb, half with surprise, more 
 than half with offence, and was not aware what 
 words they were which escaped from him in his 
 amazement. Of course it agreed exactly with 
 his own resolutions ; but people are seldom much 
 delighted to find their resolutions, however pain- 
 ful, forestalled so completely by the event. 
 
 " No more ! " said William Stanfield. '' I don't 
 say it -svithout a little shame o' myself, Mr. 
 Trevelyan, nor with any but kind feelings to you. 
 There's a deal of better company in the world 
 than w'e are. It's less of a loss to you than to 
 us," he continued kindly, moved by the blank 
 aspect of the young man's face.
 
 The Blacksmith's Resolution. 99 
 
 The young squir^' felt tlie ground taken from 
 luider liis feet. He Avas utterly confused for tlic 
 moment — stupid witli wretcliedness, and disgust^ 
 and disappointed love. It was not even lie who was 
 retiring from the field — he was being sent away; 
 and_, however he might rebel against other autho- 
 ritieSj William Stanfield meant it^ and in the 
 calm of his regretful resolution was invincible. 
 Standing blank before this compassionate im- 
 movable man, poor Roger found nothing to say 
 but the least prudent, the most foolish words he 
 could have uttered. "And Agnes ?^^ he said, in 
 the bitterness of his heart — " Agnes ! am I not 
 to see her once — not once before we part ?'^ 
 
 " Agnes \" said Stanfield, with a great crimson 
 flush darting in an instant over his face. He 
 lifted his large brown eyes in a perfect blaze of 
 light, suddenly roused by the only touch in the 
 world which could have moved him to passion. 
 '' Agnes ! and what have you to do with Agnes, 
 young man?'^ he went on, sternly subduing himself, 
 but quite unable to bring down tliis sudden ex- 
 citement to his usual calm. He stood steady and 
 inexorable before young Ti'evelyan, fixing upon him 
 those broad Juno-eyes, which were almost awful 
 in their unwonted light. If he had been con- 
 scious of any evil intention in respect to her, or- 
 even of any frivolous thought, Roger must have; 
 H 2
 
 100 Agnes, 
 
 been ovenvhelmed by that steadfast gaze. But 
 he was himself too much absorbed and carried 
 p^way by his own emotions to be moved by a look. 
 
 " What have I to do with her ?" said the 
 young squire^ bitterly; " oh, nothing, I suppose — 
 nothing ; now that you have settled it between 
 you, my father and you. It does not matter 
 that I love her — it does not matter that 
 she '' 
 
 " Hush V' said Stanfield, lifting his large 
 hand, " nothing about her ; but I beg your 
 pardon, Mr. Trevelyan, I had forgotten about 
 love, and that you were young. I should not 
 have led you into temptation. Now, perhaps 
 the less we say the better ; between you and me,^' 
 said the blacksmith, proudly declining to intro- 
 duce his daughter's name, " there may be a kind 
 of friendship — but no nearer nor further con- 
 nexion, as you are well aware. So it's best that we 
 say good-bye without any reflections. Talking's 
 good for little ; but I think the kinder of you 
 for this," he said, stretching out his large hand. 
 Eoger had no heart to take it, no will to be dis- 
 missed, every individual feeling in him revolted 
 against submission. He turned away with a 
 choking sensation of powerlessness yet resistance. 
 
 " What is the use of ofifering me your hand ?" 
 said the youth ; " if you trusted me as a gentle-
 
 The Blacksmith's Resolution. 101 
 
 man — as a man — you would never turn me away 
 from your door. What have I done? If you 
 had been a prince^ I could not have approached 
 with more respect — with greater honour. 
 Stanfield ! have a little pity ; let me see her 
 again. I will take no advantage, I will not say a 
 
 word to disturb her, unless 1 pledge you my 
 
 word to go away — -never to trouble you more ; 
 only let me see her once again V 
 
 Once more the blacksmith held out his large 
 hand. He looked with the tenderness and pity 
 of a man who was a father, yet had not outlived 
 the sentiments of his youth, upon the poor young- 
 lover. Perhaps a silent thrill of pride to find 
 that his Agnes, after all, was worthily thought of, 
 moved his heart. But he was inexorable. " No," 
 he said, with a voice which changed and trembled 
 with unusual music in the sympathy which was 
 fellow-feeling and made him once more young — 
 " no, better not for both. Mr. Trevelyan, I put 
 my confidence in you," said Stanfield, who would 
 not believe in anybody by halves ; '' she is young 
 and don^t know herself as yet. Is it not your 
 duty as well as mine to protect her from — from 
 making any discoveries that might I'm an in- 
 cautious man. I say more than there's any need 
 to say. Leave her alone, Mr. Trevelyan, in the 
 quiet of her youth."
 
 102 Agnes, 
 
 "Then you think ?" said Roger^, all in a 
 
 sudden glow of pride and happiness. 
 
 , " I think nothings sir/^ said the blacksmith, 
 with a momentary return of sternness, " except 
 that I appeal to your honour — and your — love, if 
 it is so, to come no more to my house ; not to 
 say that if you refuse, I am a man that can 
 guard my house from any visitor I disapprove of; 
 but these are not the terms I want to put it on,^^ 
 said Stanfield, with once again that softening 
 musical thrill in his voice. " Good-bye, sir, and 
 God bless you ! We^ll think of you long at 
 Windholm — but the best wish I can wish for us 
 all, morels the pity, is that we may never 
 see you more.'^ 
 
 AYith these words, William Stanfield turned 
 away. He could neither trust himself to say 
 any more, nor to listen further to his eager 
 young companion. Roger was left standing on 
 the soft grass of the common with a kind of 
 stupefied sense that he had here come in contact 
 with the inevitable, and could do himself no good 
 by any struggle or resistance. T\^ien he reco- 
 vered he went back in a tremor of supj)ressed 
 excitement to the Hall, many a wild scheme 
 flashing through his mind the while. He 
 gave some hurried, doubtful orders to his man, 
 which that functionary consulted Mrs. Sutton
 
 The Blacksmith's Resolution. 103 
 
 about without being able to make anytliing of 
 tliem. "Whether ^Ir. Trevelyan meant to leave 
 the HaU that day^ or to remain for an indefinite 
 period, neither of them could decide, and the 
 young squire did not linger to give any explana- 
 tions. The servant made his mind easy by pack- 
 ing some of his master's tilings, and laying 
 out others for immediate use, so that however the 
 decision might prove to be, when that uncertain 
 young potentate came back, he at least might 
 not be capable of blame.
 
 ^^^^^''igfiirriT^^^^^^^^''^''^^^.'^ ^"yj^l^^^'to^ 
 
 ^^^^_^ 
 
 S 
 
 
 w^mm 
 
 1 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^W^ 
 
 ^^^m 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 By Chance. 
 
 HE young squire occupied himself 
 in a most unsatisfactory "oay all 
 the afternoon. He kept walking 
 about in utter restlessness and 
 helplessness, altogether occupied by an un- 
 accountable longing, yet unable to think of any 
 means to gratify it. He was sufficiently ex- 
 perienced in the ways of the world to know that 
 he ought to seize this moment to escape, and 
 ought to be grateful to the blacksmith for a dis- 
 missal which, though it mortified him, saved him 
 from any painful consciousness of having deceived 
 or deluded the girl whom he could not prevent 
 himself from losing. Thank Heaven, she would be 
 spared any disappointment or vexation; but yet 
 that was a cold comfort, and Roger strained his 
 eyes to catch a possible glimpse of her, and con- 
 jured her pretty figure up in the distance a dozen 
 times at leasts as he wandered about the rougher
 
 By Chance. 105 
 
 part of the common^ wliere the flat surface was 
 broken with inrLiimerable heights and hollows. 
 He had seen Agnes pass in that direction once or 
 twice, during his acquaintance with her, going to 
 see an old servant who lived some distance off. 
 It was a forlorn hope, but still it was a hope. 
 If she, too, felt drearj" and surprised at the lack of 
 the daily visitor, he thought it was not impossible 
 that she might bethink herself of this distant 
 pensioner ; for Roger^s vanity or feelings, or some 
 clearer insight in him, made it impossible for him 
 to believe that she would be altogether indifferent 
 to his departure ; and then he thought of her 
 father's words, that they should save her from 
 making any discovery. Yes, that was tiiie, A'eiy 
 true ; but — might it not, perhaps, be better that 
 they should for one exquisite moment know that 
 they loved each other, and part, innocent young 
 martyi's, conscious of the delight as well as the 
 anguish, as that they should pine apart, always 
 longing to know what was in each other's hearts ? 
 Young Trevelyan kept wandering up and down 
 among the gorse bushes with these thoughts in 
 his mind — often thinking, as he lifted his eye and 
 his eyeglass in wistful inspection of the long 
 stretch of vacant space open before him, that some 
 solitary distant figure, which in one case turned 
 out to be Mrs. Mumford, the laundress, and in
 
 106 Agnes. 
 
 another a woman selling Oranges^ was Agnes ; for 
 the poor fellow^s agitation did not help his im- 
 perfect Adsion. And so at last it happened that 
 he had jnst tnrned from a long^ searching, vain 
 gaze in the direction of the village, and was 
 dropping his ej^eglass mth a hea^y sigh, when a 
 sound almost too light for a footstep caught his 
 anxious ear on the other side ; and turning round 
 he actually saw the figure for which he had been 
 looking, and which seemed to his startled per- 
 ceptions at this particular moment to have 
 dropped from the skies. 
 
 Agnes was going home, with a little empty 
 basket in her hand ; she had taken that long 
 walk to-day as he divined, but not because 
 she missed his daily visit. Quite a different 
 reason had moved the blacksmiths daughter ; 
 she had gone to be out of the way when the 
 daily visitor came — half Avith a forlorn pride to 
 shoAV that she did not care, half with a maidenly 
 wile that he might feel her absence. And the 
 result Avas that Agnes knew nothing about her 
 father's interview with Roger — nothing of the 
 decision which had been come to — and so, totally 
 unwarned and unguarded, fell at once, her heart 
 beating with unexpected thrills of happiness, into 
 the most dangerous way of temptation. Roger 
 did not attempt to conceal the little start of
 
 Bij Chance. 107 
 
 deliglited surprise with which he hailed her 
 appearance. He was by her side in a moment^ 
 crackling through the gorse-bushes. " I thought 
 I should see you at last/^ he cried_, out of the 
 irrepressible emotion of his heart — '^ I knew I 
 should find you here/^ 
 
 " Why V^ said AgneS; with a little wonder ; " I 
 am not often here ; but I suppose they told you 
 at home/^ she said, after a moment^ s interval, 
 with a slight faint flush of displeasure on her 
 cheek. 
 
 " No/^ said Roger, walking on slowly, very 
 slowly, by her side, and constraining her, accord- 
 ing to the rules of ^' good manners '' in which 
 the blacksmith had brought up his child, to 
 slacken her oa^h steps ; and then, after a pause, 
 the young man added, ^'^I am going away." 
 
 His voice sounded so blank and melancholy 
 that an uninterested spectator might have laughed 
 at its conscious pathos ; but it was no laughing 
 matter with poor Agnes. She felt giddy as she 
 continued to go on, no longer seeing clearly 
 where she was going. The light paled suddenly 
 out of the evening atmosphere, and her heart 
 sank in her breast. " Yes," said Agnes, and as 
 soon as she could go on, " I heard you were going 
 away." 
 
 " You heard ?" said Roger, turning round to
 
 108 Agnes. 
 
 look at her. He was wonderfully cheered and 
 encouraged by the faint tones of her voice; and 
 yet , perhaps it meant only acquiescence in this 
 banishment_, to which everybody made up their 
 minds so easily. " Agnes^ do you bid me 
 go like the rest?" said the troubled young 
 man. 
 
 " I ?" the poor girl faltered. ^' I have nothing 
 to do with it^ Mr. Trevelyan ; it was because your 
 father and your sister had come to the Hall. They 
 said at home that you were not likely to come to 
 us any more." 
 
 " But neither my father^ nor my sister^ nor 
 anybody in the worlds is half so much to me as 
 you are/^ said young Trevelyan^ who even forgot 
 that he had his love to tell in the eagerness of 
 his anxiety for an answer. '^ If it is for your peace 
 or comfort I will go, though it kills me ; but, 
 Agnes, you must tell me yourself," said the 
 excited youth ; " I will not take it fi'om anyone 
 else. If I must go, it is you who must send 
 me away." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Trevelyan, hush ! hush !" said Agnes; 
 "you don^t know what you are saying." She 
 did not know, poor soul; her face had become 
 utterly pale ; her voice sank almost to a whisper ; 
 it was all she could do to keep from crying. And 
 beside her was this face which she could not
 
 By Chance, i09 
 
 help seeing, and Tvhicli seemed to hang upon 
 her decision. WTiat had brought this mystery 
 abont? Wonder and a certain a^'e mingled with 
 the exqnisite sweet anguish in her heart. She 
 did not think what was coming; only that the 
 world was ffoinsr to end — that he was c:oino^ awav. 
 They had both strayed out of the path with their 
 slow uncertain steps, and had got into the heart of 
 the gorse, and paused there, not knowing why. 
 
 "Agnes," said the young squire again, with 
 agitated breathless lips, "nobody else in the 
 world can love you as I do. I would die before 
 vexation or harm should come near you. I would 
 guard you with my life ; and ^vhy — why should 
 you join with all the rest ? I could be content 
 with any kind of life if you would share it," said 
 the young lover. He grew bolder as he saw how 
 little prepared she was, and how confused and 
 tremulous she stood before him. He took the 
 shy maiden hand, which was too much startled 
 by the sudden touch to know how to withdi-aw 
 itself, and held it fast. "Agnes, you have not 
 the heart to send me away ?" 
 
 And then the blue eyes rose, which were full 
 of depths unfathomable even to Roger's love. 
 " How could you think it ? It would be like — 
 dying," she said, with a sudden fall in her voice, 
 so that he could scarcelv make out the sound of
 
 110 Agnes, 
 
 the last word; but the sense was not difficult to 
 realise. Then Agnes discovered what it was she 
 had said. She drew herself away from him with 
 a start of ten'or. " We should not speak so to 
 each other/' she said^ in the first shock of percep- 
 tion — ^'^not you and I. Oh^ Mr. Trevelyan, I 
 
 forgot — I did not think ;'' and the tears,, which 
 
 would fain have come much sooner, ended the 
 sentence in a confusion which was sweeter to 
 Roger than the most coherent avowal of love. 
 And now it was his tui'n to speak, and he spoke^ 
 saying nothing very new — nothing that would 
 bear repeating — Avords that most people have 
 said or heard once in their lives ; but they were 
 as new to Agnes as they w^ere to Eve, and 
 if the Windholm common grew- straightway into 
 a garden of Eden around the two young souls, 
 who could wonder? Of course it was the only 
 natural result which such a chance meeting at 
 such a moment could have had. Yet perhaps a 
 touch of another world — a world after the Fall — 
 thrilled through the young squire when he found 
 himself nearing the village, after an hour or a 
 minute, he could not tell which, of that climax of 
 youthfLil delight, with Agnes' s arm drawn through 
 his own ; but his companion knew nothing of the 
 strange jar which ran tlii'ough his very frame as if 
 some sensitive nerve had been touched. She did
 
 By Chance. Ill 
 
 not know tliat lie was going as directly in the face 
 of prudence^ and reason^ and every wise suggestion^ 
 as of tlie cliill but delicious breeze wliicli bad 
 caugbt the breath of violets from the -sillage- 
 gardens^ and swept over them as they went home- 
 ward. They were not talking much just then, 
 but they were walking arm-in-arm, much to the 
 confusion of Agnes, who would fain have kept 
 apart as they came near the neighbom's' houses. 
 Roger held her reluctant hand tight, as if it were 
 a protection to him, and when she insisted upon 
 withdi^awing it, some of his courage failed the 
 young man. They were just coming in sight of 
 the Green and of William Stanfield^s windows, 
 on which the setting sun burned with its brightest 
 departing glow. '' I have been here to-day before, 
 and youi' father turned me away," said the young- 
 squire. Just then the gates of the Cedars swung 
 open, and the can'iage containing the three young 
 ladies, all in fidl dinner costume, swept past the 
 wayfarers. Roger took off his hat mechanically 
 in reply to their salutations; but poor Agnes 
 dropt aside, perceiving intuitively the keen look 
 of wonder and indignation which all the three 
 cast upon her. The blacksmiths daughter felt a 
 certain bitterness gliding over her heart for the 
 first time in her life. Then she, too, began to 
 feel that she had returned to the world as it has
 
 1]2 Agnes. 
 
 been since the Pall ; yet there was something 
 she could anchor on without any disquietude. 
 " My father is coming to meet us/^ said Agnes_, 
 with a pang of new-born trouble and faith. 
 Perhaps he might say this wonderful dream was 
 to end^ and slay the infant joy at a stroke; but 
 at all events^ though it might kill her_, what he 
 should decide could be nothing but just and 
 right.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Blacksmith's Defeat. 
 
 T was an aTvful moment for tlie 
 triumphant Ioatt. William Stanfield 
 came forward witli steady rapid 
 steps,, and with his eyes fixed upon 
 the young squii'e. To see the two approaching 
 together had struck a blow of actual physical 
 anguish upon the blacksmith^ s heart. After all^ 
 had it not been possible to save his child — his 
 woman-child^ over whom his heart yearned? and 
 yet the depths of silent tolerance and human sym- 
 pathy that were in the man restrained the instinc- 
 tive passion -sdth which he looked upon the young 
 disturber of his household peace. But there was 
 not now a moment to be lost. His mind had 
 been full of doubt and trouble all day. Could he 
 not see in the averted face of his daughter that 
 new commotion which for the first time in her life 
 she wanted to hide from him ? She had gone out 
 without his knowledge^ and much to the increase 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Agnes. 
 
 of his anxiety ; for^, if tlie two TOimg creatures 
 metj Avlio could prevent tlie ine\dtable cata- 
 strophe ? So lie went to meet them with some- 
 thing of the same silent haste with which he 
 would have started to snatch his daughter from 
 drowning or biu'ning, and with a hea^y weight at 
 his heart. 
 
 As for Roger^ it was all he could do to man 
 himself for that inteniew. " Don^t be fr-ightened, 
 darling/^ he said softly to Agnes ; but in reality 
 he was more frightened than she was. The 
 blacksmith scarcely paused when he came up to 
 them. He said to his daughter^ " Go home^ 
 little one_, I will come to you presently/^ and 
 laying his great hand on the young squire^s arm^ 
 drew him away in the opposite direction. " You 
 must come with me^ 3Ir. Trevelyan. I must 
 speak with you/' he said^ with a force totally 
 irresistible^ not lea^ing a moment for any word of 
 parting. " I will come back^ Agnes/' said the 
 young maUj in a kind of despair^ before he was 
 swept away by the stronger tide of her father's 
 will. All these strange proceedings were seen and 
 noted by various eyes. The man at the Cedars, 
 who was slowly closing the gate after the carriage^ 
 and who had thought the blacksmith's daughter 
 not utterly above his OAvn admiration^, took in the 
 whole scene with insolent astonishment^ putting a
 
 The Blacksmith's Defeat, 1 1 5 
 
 construction not unlike what Sir Roger Trevclyan 
 might have done on that remarkable encounter. 
 As for AgneSj she ran across the Green^ trembling 
 so that she could not trust herself to walk^ in an 
 agony of terror and trusty secret shame^ and pride 
 and anguish. Could it come to an end^ that new- 
 born immortal joy ; and then what worth would 
 life be afterwards? She fled to her room^ and 
 threw herself on her knees, and found there AA'as 
 no longer any power in her but of distracted, 
 confused recollections, and fright and wonder. 
 Oh, when would the suspense be over ? "When 
 should she know what she had to endure ? 
 
 '' Mr. TiTvelyan, you haven^t been fair and 
 honest with me — not as I had a right to expect," 
 said the blacksmith. " You gave me your word, 
 and I gave you my blessing. We parted friends," 
 said the father, involuntarily becoming excited, 
 *' and yet I find you here again, stealing back to my 
 house. I did not forbid you my house, because 
 I trusted your word. You^ve been speaking 
 things to the child that she never should have 
 heard. You have broken our compact that was 
 on your honour. Young man, it's best not to 
 make any answer. When a man thinks he^s 
 being trifled with, it^s hard work keeping his 
 temper. I've a right now to ask you to go aAvay." 
 
 "No, Stanfield — everything is changed. Let 
 T 2
 
 116 Agnes. 
 
 me tell you liow it is. I was coming to see you — '' 
 cried Roger. 
 
 " 1^11 have no talking," said tlie indignant 
 fatlier — " no talking. If you tell me youVe 
 stolen my child's peace, it'll be an ill hearing for 
 one of us. Pve but one thing to ask of you, Mr. 
 Trevelyan ; and, if you're a man of honour, 
 and a gentleman, as I took you for, you'll do it 
 "without another word : it is to go out of this 
 place to-night, and never, as long as she's in 
 Windholm, to enter it more." 
 
 "And I tell you, Stanfield," cried the young 
 man, fired by his words, " that, as I am a gentle- 
 man and a man of honour, I will not go ; and 
 that wherever Agnes is, is my place, and I will 
 not leave it unless I carry her with me. Hear 
 
 me out. I mean " 
 
 " Young man," said the powerful blacksmith, 
 laying his hand upon Roger's slight shoulder, 
 " it don't matter to me what you mean. Honour ! 
 You've done it, then, have you ? I have it 
 in my heart to curse you, you bit of a lad ! 
 Had you no manhood in you, to put a force on 
 yourself and save the child ? Love ! that's what 
 such as you call love. Good Lord ! I'd have tied 
 myself up with ropes — I'd have rent myself in 
 twain afore I'd have done it. And now you dare to 
 face her father, boy ! God preserve me that I don't
 
 The Blacksmith's Defeat, 117 
 
 lay hands on you. Slie^s my ewe lamb^ tliat Fve 
 nourished in my bosom. I don^t care nothing 
 what happens in the worlds as long as my little 
 girFs safe. And you had the hearty for an hour^s 
 pleasure " 
 
 " Stanfield ! what do you suppose Fve done V 
 said the startled youth. 
 
 This question roused a flash of fuiy in the 
 broad brown eyes. 
 
 " Done V said Stanfield_, with a kind of sup- 
 pressed lion's roar of resentment and indignation, 
 '^ done ! what could ye do ? Do you think you 
 could stain the sky with your breath ? but you^e 
 done as much harm as you're capable of, all the 
 same." He added, after a moment's pause_, ^^ You're 
 the squire, ]\Ir. Ti'evelyan, but you're none of my 
 child's equal, think of yourself what you will." 
 
 " No," said Roger, with the humility of young 
 love, " no — I never thought I was." 
 
 The blacksmith was mollified in spite of himself. 
 
 " And yet you've made the waters bitter that 
 were sweet," he said, with unconscious pathos. 
 " You've woke up the child's heart, and troubled 
 her life. Did it never come into your head that 
 a man might deny himself to save a young crea- 
 ture that knew nothing o' the world ? It's play 
 to you ; but when she wakes up to find the 
 difference "
 
 118 Agnes. 
 
 Stanfield paused^ overcome by tlie bitterness 
 of liis OAvn tbouglits. 
 
 ^ " It^s no play to me^" said young Trevelyan, 
 breaking in eagerly. ^^You will not let me 
 speak. Stanfieldj I am a man — I am not a boy. 
 I have a right to guide my own actions. Agnes 
 — yes_, I have a right to call her so^ and I will — 
 Agnes loves me/^ said the young man, involun- 
 tarily speaking low, and betraying the sweetness 
 of the words by the sudden flush of happy con- 
 sciousness over his face. " She has promised to 
 be my wife. Why should you separate us, and 
 destroy the happiness of your own child ? You 
 donH love her as I do, Stanfield ; you can't, it's 
 impossible ! I would give my life for her " 
 
 " I don't love her as you do ?'' said the black- 
 smith, with a half gasp of bitter amusement — 
 " no ; you're in the right there, Mr. Trevelyan. 
 I loA'c her a hundred and a thousand times better, 
 boy, being her father, than a score like you. You 
 would give your life for her ? It's easy talking. 
 You would not give up your will for her, which 
 w^as what I asked of vou. Do it now, and I'll 
 forgive you all she has to suffer by your means. 
 She's but young ; she'll get over it. Think," 
 said Stanfield, with stern emphasis, '^ of your 
 father, your rank, your friends ! You're a 
 gentleman, and the heir of a great property ; and.
 
 The Blacksmith's Defeat. 1 19 
 
 in tlie eye of tlie worlds tlie blacksmitli^s daughter 
 of Wmdholm^ is no wife for yon. Yon might 
 give her yoiu' word and mean it/^ continued the 
 blacksmith^ not without a certain loftiness_, as 
 of a man addressing his inferior, as he looked 
 down from his greater height upon the agitated 
 youth before him, '' yet who could say, when you 
 went away and came under other influence, that 
 you could keep it, Mr. Trevelyan, even meaning 
 your best ? No — you were tempted, and you^'e 
 fallen, contrary to what you said to me this 
 morning. Til forgive you all youVe done, if 
 you^ll take heart now, and go away." 
 
 " Take heart ?" said Roger. " You treat me as 
 if I were a fool or a blackguard, Stanfield. You 
 would as soon persuade me to shoot myself here 
 where I am standing as to go away. I am going 
 back to Agnes. Why are you so hard upon us ? 
 If she is willing, what have you to say against 
 me ? I have never betrayed man nor woman," 
 said the young man, with a little emotion. " I 
 have been false to no one, so far as I am aware ; 
 but you speak to me as if I were proved to be a 
 scoundrel. Such as I am, your daughter has 
 chosen me ; and I will not leave Windholm, not 
 if the Queen ordered me, not for a hundred 
 fathers — for nobody in the world," said the young 
 man, impetuously, ^' but Agnes herself; and she 
 will not send me awav."
 
 120 Ac^ies, 
 
 There was a momentary pause ; for tlie young 
 passion was too genuine and manful not to liave 
 it»s effect upon so true a man as Stanfield. He 
 recognised its reality in spite of Mmself. In 
 that moment the two changed characters,, and 
 Koger gained a temporary advantage. He turned 
 round with steady determination to go back 
 again. 
 
 " If you have nothing more to say to me^ I 
 will go back to Agnes/^ he said^ looking full in 
 the blacksmith^s troubled face. " She and I 
 have but one interest henceforward, and you 
 know she will be anxious. Be kind to her/^ 
 cried Roger, involuntarily. " DonH go back 
 with a gloomy countenance to destroy her hap- 
 piness; don^t put distrust in her heart. She 
 honours you above all the world/^ said the young 
 man, with a softened tone, " and — she loves 
 me.'' 
 
 It was a sound like a great sob that came out 
 of Stanfield' s heart. To be told thus that he was 
 to be kind to his child — the apple of his eye — to 
 hear this stranger boy assert his right to her, and 
 plead for her father's forbearance towards his 
 darling ! A tempest of mingled passion shook 
 the very soul of the sti'ong man. Fury, sym- 
 pathy, desolateness, a yearning to be with his 
 daughter, a terrible sense of loss struck to his
 
 The Blacksmith's Defeat. 121 
 
 heart. BetTreen the impulse of doing a \'iolence 
 to the intruder beside him^ and giving him his 
 hand in reluctant but solemn amity^, his spirit ^vas 
 divided -svithin him. To these conflicting feelings 
 he gave no expression^ except in that sob or groan, 
 and in the moisture, ^vrung by intensity of pain, 
 Tvhich came to his eyes, unseen in the twilight. 
 For the candid soul could not deny its own 
 nature — could not but confess that the youth had 
 responded gallantly and like a man, nor abjure 
 the strong belief in Love and Truth which lay at 
 the bottom of his creed. He could not do it. 
 He turned back with a heavy heart by Roger's 
 side. Not even the weight of troublous thoughts 
 that oppressed him, could make an infidel of 
 the loyal heart which had no understanding of 
 falsehood. He made no profession of cordiality, 
 or change of opinion ; he said only — " I will go 
 back with you," and, subduing himself, went. 
 
 They walked back together in the slowly-falling 
 darkness, the father^s thoughts all sublime in 
 their very trouble, faithful to faith, notwith- 
 standing the unexpressed and inexpressible doubt 
 and presentiment within him ; the lover again 
 feeling, now and then, even as he hastened 
 towards his love, that jar of strange conscious- 
 ness which had moved him before he parted with 
 her. Roger had won the dav ; but even in the
 
 122 Agnes. 
 
 exaltation of liis triumpli, the young man could 
 not shut his eyes to the step he was taking. 
 Thus they went back, visible from the window, 
 where Agnes watched with a beating heart. She 
 did not see the ghosts that stalked after them 
 through the twilight, and the sight of the two 
 returning together gave perfection to her dream 
 of blessedness. Now, indeed, for the first time, 
 it began to be apparent to her that the wonderful 
 vision was true.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Plighting Troth. 
 
 lASTER," said tlic blacksmiths 
 Avife^ Liirsting into tlie forge iu 
 all tlie fliisli of lier liigli- coloured 
 and excitable beauty — " lie^s come 
 back. I tliouglit you bad took advice for once^ 
 and sent tbe young squire, as isn't a visitor for a 
 bouse like ours, away. But be's come in, tliougli 
 it's so late ; and you — master, it's seldom as 
 you're to be seen bere at this liour of tbe nigbt." 
 " Veiy seldom, Sally," said William Stanfield, 
 out of tbe gloom. He bad come into tbe empty 
 forge, wbere tbe evening ligbt bad faded almost 
 into complete darkness, wben Roger Trevelyan 
 rusbed upstairs — and was seated on a rude stool, 
 leaning bis bead upon bis bands. It Avas a mo- 
 ment of defeat for tbe strong and true man, and 
 be bad paused to master bimself before be came 
 into tbe ligbt. 
 
 " Seldom ! YOU take it easv, master — vou take
 
 124? Agnes. 
 
 it easy !*^ cried his imcoiigenial mate^ tvIio was 
 excited out of her usual deference. " Do you 
 think T\'hat^s to come of it^ and you sitting by 
 and taking no notice ? I did think as you had 
 took advice ; but there's young Roger by your 
 girFs side^ a- stealing of her wits away with his 
 talk. It'll end in shame — it can't end in nothing 
 but shame ; and how will you ever hold up your 
 head^ master " 
 
 " Stop there/' said the blacksmith,, rising and 
 coming forward into the faint grey light in which 
 the excited woman stood. " It's not my part to 
 be hard upon you, even if you can't understand ; 
 but I'm just a man like the rest; I may say 
 what I'll be sorry for^ if you rej)eat that word 
 again. No, Sally/' he continued, sadly, leaning 
 his hand upon her shoulder, with a vague yearn- 
 ing for sympathy which startled the woman — 
 " shame doesn't come natural to me nor mine ; 
 it's because you don't understand. I thought 
 my Agnes was as the angels, and I was a fool 
 to think it. The angels are none fit for this 
 world Sally; and a woman, though she be the 
 purest thing in God's creation " 
 
 " Don't, master," said Mrs. Stanfield, with a 
 little start, as if he had hurt her. He took his 
 arm away with a momentary wistful disappointed 
 look, and then relapsing into his own thoughts.
 
 Plighting Troth. 125 
 
 began to walk up and down the darksome breadtli 
 of tlie smithy. The shntter was up upon the 
 large open unglazed window_, and the light_, such 
 light as there was — the chill grey twilight of the 
 March evening — came in at the open door^ making 
 a centre to the blackness in which the two figures 
 might be dimly discerned. Outside, the yard was 
 quite dark and silent, sw^ept by one level line of 
 light from the archway, which shone clear across 
 to the smithy door — and showing the white outer 
 stair of the blacksmith^ s house in the distance, 
 and above it an inquisitive candle at the little 
 window, peeping out like a curious spectator into 
 the darkness below. 
 
 "Though she be the purest thing in God^s 
 creation,^^ continued the blacksmith, arguing out 
 his tender argument with himself, " though she's 
 of the kind that queens might be made of, if 
 queens went by right and merit — though she's 
 innocent as a babe, and fair as a flower — though 
 a man can see no harm nor ill that could come nigh 
 her ;" he was walking up and down the dark forge, 
 crossing now and then the stream of gi'ey light 
 from the doorway before his wondering wife, who 
 looked on in total incomprehension, saying the 
 w^ords over softly to himself; "but the end of 
 it is," he continued, with a change of tone which 
 sounded strange to her ears in the darkness.
 
 126 Agnes. 
 
 througli ^yllicll slic could not sec liis facc^ " tlic 
 end of it all^ Sally/' lie said, Avith a kind of 
 r\iournful Imraour, coming up to liei% and again 
 laj^ing liis hand on lier sliouldcr, " is, that being 
 my child, she can't l)e an angel, and that marry- 
 ing and giving in marriage, is the way of this 
 world/' 
 
 " jNIarriagc !" cried !Mrs. Stanfield, with a little 
 scream, " marriage ! and do you mean to tell 
 me, master, as Mr. Roger — Lord, he's deceiving 
 of you — good Lord, he's a-taking of you in! it ain't 
 a thing as could be done among the Ti'eyelyans. 
 Oh, master, you knoAV a deal more things than I 
 do j you're a — a deal better than I am," cried 
 the yroman, with a stifled sob ; " but you don't 
 know the wickedness that's in this world; Sir 
 Roger would see his son dead and buried 
 before " 
 
 " Sons have wills o' their OAvn, Sally," said 
 the blacksmith ; " and a bit of a lad might have 
 his own objections, in reason, to being dead and 
 buried. I'm going in now, for I have something 
 more to say to the boy to-night." 
 
 ^^ But, master — you don't mean for to tell me 
 as he's agoing to marry your girl — not Agnes ? 
 I'd believe a deal if you'd say it ; but to marry 
 Agnes ? Master, he's a deceiving of you — it 
 can't come true !" said Mrs. Stanfield, with a
 
 Plighting Troth. 127 
 
 mixture of wonder^, scorn^ and offence -wliicli was 
 strange to see. 
 
 The blacksmith made no immediate answer; 
 he closed the heavy door behind her as she 
 came out, and locked it with the great key. 
 " It's not your fault that you can't understand/' 
 he said_, with something between a sigh and a 
 groan. " Ay, she^s going to marry him ; it's little 
 pleasure to me. He's no more like my girl than 
 
 But never mind, it's all Greek and Latin to 
 
 you, Sally/' continued William Stanfield_,with again 
 a softening in his voice. He was touched with 
 what seemed to him the motherly anxiety of his 
 wife. True, she could not understand; but in her 
 way she meant to guard his girl, and he could 
 not allow that kindness to pass without gratitude, 
 troubled as he was. 
 
 " Not like the girl !" exclaimed the amazed 
 wife, but with suppressed tones — ^' not like the 
 girl — and he a Trevelyan ! Not good enough 
 for her! Oh, Lord!" Mrs. Stanfield followed 
 her husband up the outer stair, her face looking 
 flushed and heated in the blinking light of that 
 inquisitive candle in the little mndow. The 
 window was slightly open, and the cold air puffed 
 the little flame about, and threw flickering uncertain 
 lights upon the master and mistress of the house 
 as they ascended the stair. Stanfield went first.
 
 128 Agnes. 
 
 for tlie natural courtesy of the man, profound as 
 it T\'as, was scarcely of the kind to overcome the 
 usual habits of his class, or to rouse him up 
 from his preoccupation to let his wife pass. He 
 paused when he had reached the door and turned 
 back upon her. " Sally^ donH speak to trouble 
 the child^s mind/* said the blacksmith ; '^ you've 
 seen the bad side of the world, poor thing ; but 
 she knows nought of that ; you^^e a good 
 meaning, but you donH understand her nor me.*^ 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield tossed her head with an ominous 
 movement. "Master, you^re wise,'"' she said, with 
 some bitterness, "you and your girl — I don't 
 pretend to be as great a scholard as her nor you ; 
 but if she comes to harm, you'll think on my 
 words. I don't know what she is, that things 
 should happen different to other folks. No, I'll 
 not say nothing. No, Stanfield, there ain't no 
 occasion for blazing up upon me with your two 
 eyes. I've cleared my conscience — I haven't 
 seen the girl agoing to her ruin and kep' it to 
 myself; you've my warning, whatever happens. 
 But I won't say no more, nor interfere with 
 what's no business o' mine. If it had been my 
 girl, I'd have done different ; but I'm one as can 
 do what I'm told and hold my tongue. You 
 shan't hear no more from me." 
 
 The blacksmith looked at her with compas- 
 sionate, impatient eyes. She stood on the
 
 Plighting Troth. 129 
 
 threshold, the Ml-formed, ^arm-coloui-ed, high- 
 tempered creature,, in her overbloTm heauty, 
 glowing with a superficial flush of passion, to the 
 origin of which he, gazing at her T\'ith the in- 
 voluntary impatience of a pure mind brought in 
 contact with the lower sphere of intellect, wliich 
 does not comprehend purity, had no clue. He 
 drew a quick breath, and resigned himself with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " I wish YOU understood, Sally — but it^s all 
 heathen Greek to you,^^ said the man, whose 
 tender human toleration perceived and pitied her 
 disability even while it disturbed him; and he 
 went on to the closed door of the parlour, leaving 
 her behind with the flickering candle, which stood 
 peering out into the night. As for Mrs. Stanfield, 
 she laid her plump flushed hand upon her ample 
 bosom, within which her heart was beating loudly, 
 and shook the other dimpled fist in the air. ^'^A^Tiat 
 is she, I wouder, that she should be diflferent from 
 other folks ?^' she breathed half aloud in a fiery 
 breath of disdain and passion, and then a few 
 hasty tears swept out of her fiery hazel eyes. 
 Perhaps they relieved her mind a little. ^^ But 
 I hadn't no good father to take care of me," she 
 said to herself as she put down the window; 
 and after a pause, wiping off the tears, followed 
 with female curiosity into the parlour, from which 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 Agnes. 
 
 Agnes liad hastily glided to bring liglits. The 
 ,girl was thankful to escape at that trying 
 moment, for she was the only one of the party who 
 divined her father's deep disappointment, and its 
 visionary yet real causes. She went to light the 
 lamp and bring it in, finding some comfort in 
 that simple ofi&ce — for she was still only William 
 StanfiekVs daughter, used to domestic ministra- 
 tions, though the young squire had chosen her 
 for his bride. 
 
 AYhen Mrs. Stanfield went in, the two men were 
 by themselves in the dark parlour. There was 
 still a kind of twilight there, for the blinds had 
 been drawn up from the two windows, and the cold 
 March evening sky, with a clear break of windy 
 chiUy blue, opening up the dark clouds in the 
 western distance, looked full in upon their in- 
 distinct figures. The blacksmith had seated him- 
 self in his nsual easy-chair near the fire, where he 
 sat silent waiting for the lamp, while Roger stood 
 by the ^nndow, unconsciously watching in his 
 excitement the moving figures on the village 
 green, and the twinldes of light in the windows 
 of the Cedars, which were glimmering through the 
 opposite trees. The young man was tingling with 
 happiness and delight, yet moved by strange tin-ills 
 of self- consciousness and pain ; he was less at his 
 ease now than ever he had been before ; and
 
 Plighting Troth. 131 
 
 unawares and suddenly^ by some strange spell, his 
 eyes had been opened and his ear became sensitive 
 to every mark of the social difference between 
 the blacksmith's house and his own natural home. 
 
 '^ TVTiere is Agnes V said Mrs. Stanfield, 
 coming in. " If there is anything going on be- 
 tween her and Mr. Trevelyan — as I can't believe 
 my ears as it can be true — you might have had 
 the thought,, master, to ring the bell for Martha. 
 It ain't becoming to one as is considered a match 
 for Mr. Roger to go to the kitchen for the lamp 
 like a common sort of a girl. Not as it's much 
 o' the work of this house goes through her hands ; 
 but still, master, if you'd leave these things to a 
 woman, it ain't afore Mr. Roger that I'd send 
 her on such errands; but you men, though you 
 may be wise, there's a deal o' things as show you 
 can never learn." 
 
 This speech thrilled Roger Trevelyan through 
 and through as he stood by the window. It was 
 well for him he was in the dark, which did not 
 show the fluctuations of his colour, the changes 
 of his face. To think that this woman had any 
 right to comment on the acts of his Agnes, or to 
 discuss the new bond formed between them ! Up 
 to this night Roger had laughed at Mrs. Stan- 
 field, and chatted with her in the freest and most 
 friendly way. Now it occurred to him, like a 
 K 2
 
 132 Agnes, 
 
 sudden horror^ that slie \vas going to be his rela- 
 tion — liis mother-in-law. The shock was inde- 
 scribable. He shrank into the corner of the 
 window, and looked out more and more fixedly at 
 the moving lights in the Cedars. Perhaps matters 
 would not have been much better if he had gone 
 on his wooing there. 
 
 " Let us alone^ Sally/^ said the blacksmith's 
 voice through the darkness ; but his wife was ex- 
 cited^ and continued, to chatter on — 
 
 " She's not been brought up as I approve of, 
 
 Mr. Roger,, hasn't Agnes ; but it ain't for me to 
 
 make light of the master's daughter afore him 
 
 and you^ if so be as you have set your fancy upon 
 
 her, which is a wonder to me. The master there, 
 
 he's put out because I'm speaking so free ; but I 
 
 always did speak my mind free. She's a good 
 
 girl, ^ir. Trevelyan, though we do have words 
 
 now and again; and a pretty girl, for them as 
 
 likes that kind of looks — though I never was much 
 
 of a one for the pale sort myself I am sure I 
 
 wish you well, and it's a great honour. I've seen 
 
 more of the world than the master has, and I 
 
 know what a great honour it is. It is the finest 
 
 match I ever heard of, and a terrible rise in the 
 
 world for a girl like Agnes. You'll have to put up 
 
 with a deal, both from your own family and from 
 
 seeing her backward in your fine ways "
 
 Plighting Troth. 133 
 
 At this moment Agnes entered the room -svith 
 the lamp. 
 
 It was a humble function enough^ but it 
 did not misbecome her. She came in^ ^rith 
 the light throwing a special rose-radiance on 
 her beautiful young face^, all glorified and ex- 
 alted with happiness. A delicate changing colour 
 went and came upon the soft cheek which was 
 usually so pale ; her lips were a little parted with 
 the quick breath of emotion; her eyes gave one 
 wistful inquiring glance out of their dark-blue 
 depths of silence^ as she came into the room. She 
 knew they were all looking at her^ but — at that 
 moment so strangely different from all the previous 
 passages of her life^ that moment of strange exal- 
 tation, in which life seemed all at once to have be- 
 come perfect and raised above all vulgar circum- 
 stances — she, too, had surmounted the shyness of 
 her youth. She looked round upon them with 
 a tremulous smile of unspeakable trust and confi- 
 dence. Mrs. Stanfield^s words were stayed on 
 her lips by Agnes^s look; she dared no more 
 have continued to speak than if that fair young 
 face, all radiant in the pathos and inspiration 
 of joy, had been the face of an angel. By way 
 of concealing her discomfiture, she went to the 
 windows to draw down the blinds, turning her 
 back upon the girl, upon whom the other tv»'0 were
 
 134 Agnes. 
 
 gazing witli a half-adoring admiration. As for 
 Uoger Trevelyan^ lie could have thrown himself 
 at the feet of the lovely stooping figure which 
 paused for a moment by the table, after setting 
 down the lamp, in a strange but sweet confusion. 
 She did not know what to do next ; she could 
 not go and get her w^ork as usual, and sit down 
 to her ordinary evening occupation. The world 
 was a new world since the morning to Agnes : 
 she stood in the circle of the lamp-light, stooping 
 her head, casting down her eyes, waiting for some- 
 body to speak. She knew that neither of the 
 two who w^ere gazing at her could see fault or 
 blemish in anything she did. Such a heavenly sense 
 of being loved and believed in is scarcely possible 
 except to youth. She stood in the light of their 
 eyes with a conscious perfection of happiness, un- 
 willing to break the charm. 
 
 Then the blacksmith took the conduct of 
 affairs into his own hands. He came and stood 
 beside her, and took the two small hands, which 
 were becoming a little nervous and restless, into 
 his own. ^' Patience, little one,^^ he said, ten- 
 derly ; " I have something to say yet. Mr. Tre- 
 velyan, come here — I have something to say to you. 
 We\e had more talk to-day than I ever thought 
 to have had with you. It^s none of my choosing^ 
 and I don^t pretend to say that it^s a pleasure to
 
 Plighting Troth, 135 
 
 me ; no, little one/^ said the blacksmitli — looking 
 tenderly at Agnes^ who had pressed his hand in 
 remonstrance, unable to tolerate anything less 
 than his fall sympathy, and shaking his head ; 
 '^no, child. Itwonld be little pleasure, Heaven 
 knows, to give you away to any man on 
 the face of the earth — and it'^ harder now to 
 think my child may be far from welcome where 
 she goes. Young man, Vva. meaning no slight 
 to you, but she has been the light of the house, 
 the desire of the eyes " 
 
 "And so will she be to me,^^ cried Roger, eagerly. 
 He could not take her hand, because her father 
 held them both fast, but he touched the soft grey 
 folds of her wide sleeve and caressed it, softly draw- 
 ing it into his hand. And she, who had been stand- 
 ing with downcast eyes listening to her father, 
 turned with a half- conscious involuntary move- 
 ment towards the youth, and cast a timid glance at 
 him from under her eyelashes ; the motion, slight 
 as it was, went to the blacksmith^s heart. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, with a sigh of patient 
 impatience ; " well, well — you believe it, and so 
 must I. The end of it all is that she has made 
 her choice and I can^t say her nay. I never said 
 her nay, that I can remember, not all her life. 
 But, Roger Trevelyan, think well what you^re 
 about. It is not for nothing she spoke," said
 
 136 Agnes. 
 
 tlie blacksmith, indicating his T\ife ^vith a nod of 
 his head. " She knows the dark side of the 
 world a bit, though she don^t understand. 
 You're Sir Roger^s heir, and this little one here 
 is but my child. I don^t count you her equal, 
 young man,-'' said William Stanfield, towering 
 over both the young figures before him in natural 
 grandeur, and fixing the full light of his eyes 
 upon the young squire. ^' I speak the truth — I 
 don't count you her equal ; but other folks will 
 have other notions, and she is but my child, and 
 you are Sir Roger's heir." 
 
 " Stanfield, give me her hand," said young Tre- 
 velyan ; " she is your child, but she is my love ; 
 you can't keep us separate — you would not, for 
 you are a kind father. What can I say more 
 than I have said ? She is mine — give her to me." 
 
 And the two little hands stirred in the father's 
 close grasp, moving as with an impulse of releasing 
 themselves. The blacksmith was not more 
 magnanimous than nature. The little involun- 
 tary movement once more smote him like a blow. 
 He unclasped his fingers tenderly and stroked 
 and patted the two small hands which lay 
 covered over each other on his large brown palm. 
 " I have let the doves free," he said, with the 
 pathetic simple smile habitual to him. The 
 next moment there was but one, clasping, cling-
 
 Plighting Troth. 137 
 
 ing to his — the other was in Eoger Trevelyau's 
 grasp^ covered with his kisses. The strong man 
 was overpowered by the sight. Between the 
 hot and fiery impulse to cast this intruder off 
 who came between him and his child, and the 
 sorrowful tender patience which knew it must be 
 so, his strength of mind forsook him. It was 
 more because he could no longer bear it and 
 restrain his feelings than from any other motive, 
 that he took his wife, who was burning to speak, 
 out of the room, with a look that awed her into 
 silence. Mrs. Stanfield was most reluctant to go. 
 She could not give up the idea of bringing them 
 to their senses, as she said, by her own inter- 
 ference. She had been waiting an opportunity 
 to utter the words with which she was bursting, 
 but she dared not stay nor speak in direct oppo- 
 sition to the master. She made up for it by 
 bursting forth, as soon as she was outside the 
 
 door 
 
 " He should be made to sign a paper, or some- 
 thing. jMaster, there^s something as ought to be 
 done, if you were in your senses V^ cried the 
 excited woman. " What^s the meaning of 
 trusting a young gentleman like that, as if he 
 was her own rank in life, and was getting a great 
 catch in the blacksmith^s daughter, as is known 
 to be well to do ? Master, some time or other,
 
 138 Agnes, 
 
 you'll tliink upon my words. He ouglit to be 
 made to sign a paper, swearing as he'll marry 
 her " 
 
 " Woman !" cried the blacksmith_, goaded 
 beyond bearing, '^'^if he would leave her and 
 never come near us more, I would thank God. He's 
 
 no more equal to my child But God forgive 
 
 me, why should I be angry ? Is it her fault if 
 she can't understand ?" said the tolerant, com- 
 passionate soul. " I have enough to bear, to- 
 night, Sally, my poor dear," he went on, 
 laying a pitying hand on her arm. " It's the 
 evil of this world you've seen, and not the good, 
 and you don't understand. Don't speak nor vex 
 me any more." 
 
 And it was Stanfield himself, a few minutes 
 after, who dismissed the unwilling lover. The 
 woman who " did not understand " appeared no 
 more to disturb the happiness and the trouble of 
 that night.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Hoiv the News was Told. 
 
 EXT morning Mrs. Stanfield took an 
 early opportunity of returning to her 
 own room immediately after break- 
 fast. This was not to facilitate the 
 meeting of Agnes and Roger, for that the black- 
 smith had forbidden until Sir Roger Trevelyan 
 had been informed of the engagement, at which 
 ungracious task the poor young squire was labour- 
 ing in the library of the Hall with very mingled 
 feelings, unable to refase obedience to Stanfield^s 
 stronger will, and equally unable to im^ent any kind 
 of suitable words in which to convey information 
 so startling to his father. Roger was in no joyous 
 frame of mind, under these circumstances. If he 
 couldbuthave seen Agnes, and spent the long bright 
 spring morning by her side, as he had expected, 
 the youth, in the intoxication of his love and happi- 
 ness, would have forgotten everything ; but it was 
 very different to be caged up here and to have to
 
 140 Agnes. 
 
 ■write the most Tinpalatable news in the world to 
 Sir Koger^ to whom it was horrible to him^ after 
 all that had occun'ed_, so much as to name 
 Agnes's name. He sat biting his pen with the 
 glummest countenance,, thinkings in spite of him- 
 self^ what should he do? and of having Mrs. 
 Stanfield for a mother-in-law^ and all kinds of 
 hori'ors. These thoughts were all the more per- 
 sistent that he hated himself for them^ and did all 
 he could to keep them out of his head. If he 
 could but have canied her off, taken her away to 
 the end of the world, where nobody could have any 
 right in her but himself only ! — and then Roger's 
 heart smote him to think of her father and his 
 exceeding love. But fathers, and mothers, and 
 relations in general, are, it must be owned, often 
 enough much in a lover's way. If they could but 
 be abolished and got done with, as soon as the lord 
 and prince appears who is doomed to be the 
 master of the maiden's destinies ! but, unfor- 
 tunately, natural affection, and various worldly 
 necessities to boot, stand in the way of 
 that. Anyone, however, who can realize poor 
 Koger Ti'evelyan's position, will understand he 
 had very sorry companions in the shape of thoughts 
 that morning in the Hall library. He made 
 no speed with his letter ; he hated the task ; 
 he could find no words in which to express
 
 Holo the News vjas Told, 141 
 
 Tvhat lie was thus to be compelled to say. Finally, 
 lie gave up trying, and ordered his horse, and 
 rode off to Slough, which Avas several miles nearer 
 London than Windholm, to get a bouquet for his 
 love. Agnes had never even seen such flowers 
 as those which he selected himself with a lover's 
 care, going anxiously through the conservatories 
 after the gardener, who told him all the fine 
 Latin titles, name and surname, which the young 
 squire neither heard nor cared for. But mean- 
 while Sir Roger Trevelyan was getting the neces- 
 sary information in quite a different way. 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield had retired to her own room 
 immediately after breakfast; she was not in an 
 amiable condition ; perhaps, because she had 
 been subdued and compelled to keep silence on 
 the previous night. Her hazel eyes were fiery, 
 shining with red glances, and the high colour 
 burned higher than ever in her heated cheeks. It 
 was upon Agnes, however, and not upon her hus- 
 band, that these strange looks of indignation and 
 injury were cast. An air of resentment was in 
 her whole manner to the unconscious girl, who, to 
 tell the truth, being occupied with happier 
 thoughts, never found it out. When the black- 
 smith went out after breakfast, his wife betook 
 herself upstairs. She closed and, indeed, locked 
 her door, that she might not be disturbed, and
 
 142 Agnes. 
 
 got out an odd old-fasMoned blotting-book from tlie 
 depths of an old box^ one of her few original pos- 
 sessions^ which always stood in her room, and was 
 always locked, to Martha^s great curiosity. Mrs. 
 Stanfield^s capacious bosom heaved as she bent 
 over this book ; one or two scalding tears dropped 
 over her hot cheeks. " Oh, Lord ! if the master 
 was ever to know,^^ she murmured to herself, as 
 she opened it — and then closed it again over her 
 plump hand, and cast a scared look round the com- 
 fortable, orderly apartment of which her husband 
 had made her mistress. To risk all this solid 
 comfort and enjoyment for the gratification of a 
 sentiment, of a passion, was a thing over which 
 she might well pause ; but she never had denied 
 herself her own way, and did not know how to 
 begin now. She opened the book again and 
 arranged her paper, and took up a pen. It was 
 not a kind of exertion to which she was accus- 
 tomed ; she leaned half her person over the table, 
 and painted her letters heavily with the broad nib, 
 and used a great deal of ink ; her thoughts went 
 so much faster than her hand, that, by way of relief, 
 she uttered them partly aloud — '' Who is she, I 
 would like to know, as everything is to be made 
 easy for?" she said to herself; "who made her 
 different from other folks ?'^ This the excited 
 woman repeated in one form or another when-
 
 How the News was Told. 143 
 
 ever she paused in her laborious work. " There 
 was none as tried to save me ; and who is she as 
 should be used different ?" It was at least an 
 houi' before the letter on which she bestowed so 
 much pains was finished. When she took it up 
 at last in her inked fingers to go over it, this is 
 what Mrs. Stanfield read : — 
 
 " Them as might have a good rite to write to Sir 
 Roger Trevelyan if they was to give their name 
 — but as made up theii' mind never to tmbble 
 him more but for his own good — makes bold to 
 rite for to say as mischeef s going on with the 
 young squire. He^s a- being hooked in to many 
 a tradesman's girl rite or wrong. If Sir Roger 
 Trevelyan means to putt a stopp to it he had 
 best get the young gentleman took away ; for he's 
 in hands as wont lett him go. He'U be married be- 
 fore he knows where he iss, if them as belongs 
 to him don't interfere. — From one as iss a well- 
 wisher, and wouldn't stand by and see a Ti'e- 
 velyan get into trubble for the sake of Hold Times." 
 
 It was strange to see the eager, flushed looks 
 with which the blacksmith's wife bent over this 
 letter, and read it over again and again. She 
 was troubled about the blots, of which there were 
 two or three, and went over it to dot all the i's.
 
 144 Agnes. 
 
 with a curious perseverance. When it was 
 done^ she looked at it admiringly. "If it was 
 ever to come into his head as / wrote it V 
 she said to herself; " and^ oh Lord, what would 
 the master say V Once more she looked round 
 upon William Stanfield^s comfortable room. If 
 the blacksmith should ever find out who she 
 was, what she was ! but though she trembled at 
 the thought, it brought a thrill of not unpleasant 
 excitement to the uncontrollable creature, who 
 was a wanderer at heart. If he should cast her 
 out, she had still the world and adventure before 
 her. Then she put up the letter, and put on 
 her bonnet to take it to the post-office. She 
 dared not trust it even to Oliver, the ^prentice- 
 boy, who was much in her interest. She went 
 away without going into the parlour, where Agnes 
 sat over her work in a sweet haze of dreams. 
 Mrs. Stanfield was excited ; her breath came fast, 
 her colour was higher than ever. She went to 
 the butcher's and the baker's, and engaged in 
 various agitated scraps of chat by way of arri\dng 
 at the post-office unobserved. W^hen she had 
 fairly delivered herself of the important epistle, 
 and deposited it in the letter-box, she breathed 
 freer; but shrank into herself, and almost grew 
 pale, and felt for the first time in her life as if 
 she would faint^ v.hcn turning round, she sud-
 
 How the Neivs ivas Told. 145 
 
 denlY_, without any preparation^ encountered her 
 husband with his eves full upon her_, standing at 
 the post-office door. She uttered a little cry in 
 her surprise and horror, and for the first moment 
 was inclined to fall down on her knees and 
 confess what she had done. 
 
 '^ Vm. a strange sight to see out in the tillage 
 at this time o' day/^ said the blacksmith^ smiling. 
 '^ Fve come about business^ Sally ; and so have 
 you_, it appears. I never heard of your writing a 
 letter before ; why didn't you tell me_, and Pd 
 have done it for you? for I suppose it's to Tom 
 and Roger. Roger! that's odd; I never thought 
 of it before ; your boy is the same name as the 
 young squire.'^ 
 
 ^' It ain't to call an uncommon name/^ said 
 Mrs. Stanfield;, with agitation. '' He was called 
 for his — grandfather, he was ; there's been Rogers 
 in his father's family since afore — afore Mr. 
 Roger Trevelyan was born or thought of; you've 
 been so took up with your own affah's, master^ 
 as I couldn't speak to you about my boys; and 
 a mother as has lads at sea " 
 
 She was not used to deception^ to do her jus- 
 tice, and would have been in some trouble how 
 to conclude, but for the kindly interruption of 
 the good man_, who thought no e^il. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you've been thinking of 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Agnes, 
 
 the poor boys^ Sally ; a word from a mother does 
 lads good/' said the blacksmith. " I'm going on 
 to the Vicarage to see after something that's 
 wanted there ; and I mustn't stay talking as if 
 I couldn't talk at home. I'll be back to dinner ; 
 and I hope you'll look to the child a little^ and 
 keep up her heart. Being excited yesterday, she 
 might droop if she wasn't looked to to-day." 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield heaved some troubled sighs 
 when her husband disappeared — sighs of fright, 
 and agitation, and relief. " But he didn't see 
 nothing particular in my looks," she said to her- 
 self, smoothing down her plumage like a ruffled 
 pigeon, with satisfaction, yet bitterness ; " the 
 child is all he thinks on ;" and then she turned 
 with a lightened mind to go home. Before she 
 reached home, however, she met a neighbour, 
 who stopped to speak to her. The blacksmith's 
 wife was not popular in Windholm among the 
 other respectable wives who were her neighbours. 
 They were shy of her, nobody could have ex- 
 plained why, obeying an instinct ; but there 
 was one who appreciated so good a customer, and 
 so ready a talker : this was the dressmaker who 
 worked for all the respectable tradespeople, a 
 widow, whose name was Pomplin, in whose work- 
 room all the gossip of the place originated. It 
 was Mrs. Pomplin's sallow, sharp face, which
 
 How the Neivs ivas Told. 147 
 
 now paused to look into tlie roseate and agitated 
 countenance of the blacksmith^s wife. 
 
 " Bless me ! you look in a way/' said the quick 
 observer ; " what's happened ? I meant to have 
 sent a young person up to-day to tell you of 
 some lovely new patterns that have just arrived. 
 Idj spring box came this morning, and there's a 
 sweet bonnet as is just your style ; but I hope 
 there's no bad news come, for you do seem in a 
 way." 
 
 " Oh no, M'm, no bad news/' said Mrs. Stan- 
 field — " things may put one out, without being 
 bad news, as you know, as has had a family as 
 well as me." 
 
 " I daresay," said the dressmaker, taking up 
 the challenge readily. " Yes, there's been a deal 
 of talk in the callage about the goings-on at your 
 house. Most folks seems surprised, Mrs. Stan- 
 field, as you don't put a stop to it. I don't 
 speak as giving my own opinion^ for I'm one as 
 hears all and says nothing — but folks ivill talk; 
 and most persons seems to think that it's a pity 
 to let the young squire come so much about, 
 when there's a young girl in the house." 
 
 " It shouldn't be if I had my way," said Mrs. 
 
 Stanfield — " but it's hard work to meddle between 
 
 a father and a gro^vn-up daughter. Little 
 
 children don't count ; but when they're grown 
 
 L 2
 
 148 Agnes. 
 
 up I have a feeling for tlie master^ too, for I^m 
 
 not one as would put up with other folks inter- 
 fering between me and my own flesh and blood — 
 so I do as I would be done by. If anybody was 
 to meddle between me and my girl_, as is at a 
 boarding-school, a deal too fine for the likes of 
 me " 
 
 " By-the-bye, is she likely to come to Wind- 
 holm ? It would be c\\\\ of Mr. Stanfield to 
 ask her for the holidays/-' said !Mrs. PompKn, with 
 sharp interest. 
 
 " Lord, as if they'd let her comeP^ said Mrs. 
 Stanfield. "Why, bless you, she's with her 
 father's friends — they've adopted her, they have ; 
 but as I wouldn't stand no interference between 
 her and me, so I wouldn't be the one to meddle 
 between the master and his girl — though I don't 
 say as I haven't my own thoughts all the same." 
 
 " It's only natural you should," said the dress- 
 maker ; ^' Mr. Stanfield is the best of men, but I 
 can't say as I ever thought he was judicious about 
 Agnes ; she's not been brought up like her rank 
 in life. Them as are mothers themselves can see 
 the difference ; and she's just the one to make it 
 dangerous, you know ;" and here the \illage 
 gossip nodded her head a good many times, and 
 looked sadly yet triumphantly wise. 
 
 " That^s just what I am always a- saying — but I
 
 Holo the News ivas Told. 149 
 
 don^t sse that it makes no difference/^ said Mrs. 
 Stanfield. " She^s just tlie one to take things 
 in her head — and it's easy for a girl at the best 
 of times to make up her mind as she's going to be 
 a fine lady^ when a gentleman takes any kind of 
 notice of her. It's my hope it'll all come to a 
 good end_, but there's none as can say. As for 
 marrying ' ' 
 
 " Marrying ! you don't mean to say as it's gone 
 that length?" said Mrs. Pomplin. 
 
 " I can't say as it hasn't/' said the blacksmith's 
 wife — " but I always hare my doubts of a gentle- 
 man marrying^ unless he's so placed as he can't 
 draw back ; but Lord, if he knew as I was 
 gabbling like this, what would the master say ? 
 I've got the dinner to see to, but I'll come in 
 and look at the bonnet before tea. Don't say to 
 a soul as I spoke about maiTying. If it was to 
 come to the ears of the folks in the tillage, I 
 would have no comfort of my life." 
 
 ^^ You may rely upon me/' said Mrs. Pomplin, 
 and she went away with some new ideas to com- 
 municate, which made the inspection of the box 
 of fashions a doubly interesting event. Roger 
 Trevelyan's visits to the blacksmith's house had 
 been exciting enough ; but marriage ! All Wind- 
 holm rang with the information before night. 
 
 Notwithstanding this double betrayal, !Mrs.
 
 1 50 Agnes. 
 
 Staiificld, after occupying herself very ener- 
 getically about the dinner^ and accounting for 
 her more than ordinary flush by the fact that she 
 had prepared part of it with her own hands^ met 
 her husband and his daughter without much dis- 
 composure at the common table. There was not 
 a great deal of conversation there^ for Agnes was 
 natul'ally rapt in her own thoughts, and the 
 blacksmith was more than ever preoccupied. 
 He had taken advantage of liis visit to the 
 Vicarage to inform the Vicar of what had 
 occuiTcdj to the exceeding amazement of that 
 spiritual authority. The Vicar, though odd and 
 not very orthodox and very much StanfiekVs 
 friend, had not been able to conceal his sm-prise. 
 ''Sir Roger ought to be informed,^^ he said. ''I have 
 just put a letter in the post to Sir Roger," replied 
 the blacksmith, who could not at the same time 
 divesthimsclf of a certain glow of surprised resent- 
 ment — for William Stanfield did not understand 
 being, even for the moment, disapproved of; it was 
 a novel sensation to him : so he was not much 
 disposed to talk at dinner, not having quite re- 
 covered that disagreeable surprise. More and 
 more undesirable, as he thought of it, became 
 this connexion. If the blacksmith could but have 
 di\dned that the young squire in his solitude that 
 morning had felt all the secondary disadvantages
 
 Holo the News was Told. 151 
 
 almost as painfully as he himself did_, the father of 
 Agnes would have discarded the young man with 
 a contempt which would have given him some 
 consolation. But he did not know; he only 
 looked with a regretful tenderness on his child, 
 and said to himself that at least she was happy, and 
 that the young fellow loved her — and so went out 
 to his usual work with a sore and hea\T heart. 
 
 As for Agnes, those concealed waves of trouble 
 that swelled round her had not reached the faiiy 
 pinnace in which she and her hopes and her 
 happiness were embarked. She was still in the 
 absolute stage of existence. Slow as her father 
 was to believe in falsehood, was this young soul to 
 understand unkindness. She knew what love 
 was, but she did not comprehend the reverse of 
 love, nor did it enter into her imagination to 
 conceive how, having Roger's heart, she could want 
 anything more to be happy. When her bouquet 
 came that afternoon, with a precious note — her 
 first love-letter — the innocent young heart swelled 
 with an indescribable delight. She could as soon 
 have thought of any impossibility on earth as 
 dreamt that Roger had escaped from a great many 
 troublesome and troubled thoughts about the 
 future, by dashing a dozen miles over the country, 
 in the teeth of an east wind, to get her that 
 bouquet. There was time enough and to spare
 
 152 Agnes, 
 
 to find out these liiclden shadows whicli environed 
 lier. In the meantime^ she was at the one unique 
 period of existence when the woman is more happy 
 than the man in the relations between them. Even 
 when she thought with a vague awe of Miss 
 Trevelyan_, and imagined to herself the tender ap- 
 peal she would make to the affections of that un- 
 known sister, the real cloud on her horizon did 
 not impress Agnes; the difficulties of li^ingJ the 
 incompatibility of his surroundings and hers did 
 not occur to her. She would have known a 
 great deal better about it had she been a ]Miss 
 Fox, of the Cedars — but being only the black- 
 smith's daughter, the conventional difficulties dis- 
 turbed her not. Her own world was pm-e prose, 
 she knew ; but the new world — Roger^s world — 
 was the world of poetry, where life floated on 
 angels^ wings, where people lived as in books, 
 where the pure and true w^ere recognised by 
 instinct. Her meditative soul was in that other 
 sphere of which she dreamed — it never had lived 
 among the bakers, and butchers, and tradespeople 
 of ^Vindholm. She might be a little doubtful of 
 her " manners "just at first, but of herself Agnes 
 could not be doubtful. " The burden of an 
 honour unto which she was not born/-' did not 
 oppress a mind which took little thought of the 
 external circumstances of that elevation. " Her
 
 How the Neivs was Told. 153 
 
 gentle mind was sncli_, that she grew a noble 
 lady/' would have been the truer prognostication ; 
 and she was as happy as a girl can be who is 
 truly lovedj and who anticipates nothing in this 
 world — having met with nothing in her brief 
 experience — but love and truth. So when the 
 blacksmith retired, hea^y and sore at hearty to 
 the forge, seeing nothing but harm that was to 
 result from the new relationship to which he had 
 yielded so unwillingly; when Koger returned 
 from his ride, more and more unwilling to write 
 that letter to his father, and more and more aware 
 of all the difficulties in his way ; when even Mrs. 
 Stanfield retired to her bedroom to lie down and 
 get rid of her heightened colour and something 
 which she called a palpitation, brought about by 
 excitement; the young creature most involved 
 spent the long, silent JNIarch afternoon in a haze 
 of happiness, with her flowers beside her on the 
 table, and the note, in which Roger called her 
 his own, seldom out of her hands. She expected 
 to be yet happier, more blessed than now, and so, 
 all unwitting, passed through the sweetest hour of 
 her life.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 How it was Received. 
 
 !ISS TREYELYAN was rather 
 anxious about her brother when she 
 left the HaU — not painMly anxious, 
 but sorry for this difficulty he had 
 got into so soon_, and desirous to hear that he 
 had got over it^ and forgotten the tillage beauty. 
 On the whole, she loved Roger all the better for 
 having fallen in love, and half envied him, and 
 thought within her heart, with a sigh, as she 
 stood looking into the glass, as usual, before she 
 went downstairs to join the party in the drawing- 
 room, how pleasant it was to be so young, to have 
 time to spare for all these passions and distresses. 
 The people at Horsley Park had an uncomfortable 
 habit of sending for their letters in the evening, 
 which almost neutralised their good dinners — for 
 they were in themselves very comfortable people, 
 to whom nothing untoward ever haj)pened, whose 
 children were all voung, and whose correspon-
 
 Hoiv it was Received. 155 
 
 dence was not troublesome. Miss Trevelyaii had 
 more than once had occasion to find fault with 
 this annoying practice^ for she was sometimes 
 bored about milliners^ bills and other such un- 
 lucky accidents of life. She looked with no 
 favour on the ti^av which came up just as 
 the gentlemen were straggling back to the 
 drawing - room after dinner^ with all the 
 letters aiTanged on it. The fourth night 
 after her retiu-n from that Httle expedition to 
 Windhohn^ it was with particidar distaste that 
 Beatrice beheld the approach of the itinerating 
 post-ofl&ce. She was talking to somebody whom 
 she rather liked to talk to — a man not in the 
 least loyeable or marriageable,, or what people call 
 eligible^ but yeiy capable of conyersation — a 
 quality which Beatrice much appreciated. She 
 was seated in a comfortable chaii'^ talking to 
 this agreeable companion^ when the dreaded tray 
 approached her. She ^\\t out her hand for her 
 letter with a little inward thrill as she kept on 
 the conyersation. 
 
 '' I did not think you were addicted to corre- 
 spondence like the other young ladies/^ said the 
 man she was talking to. 
 
 " I am not in the least addicted to correspon- 
 dencc;, and I tliink two posts a day are inhuman," 
 said Beatrice. " One makes up one's mind to it
 
 156 Agnes, 
 
 in the morning; but this is from my brother/^ 
 she addecl^ Trith a little relief. 
 
 She sat playing with it in her hand^ and going 
 on with her talk for a long time after. She was 
 not nneasy about Roger. Poor Roger ! in his 
 innocence and tender wretchedness^, his sister 
 emded him. That luxury of falling in love,, all 
 out of his own free-will and inclination, was 
 something out of the reach of Miss Trevelyan. 
 
 '' I daresay he thinks he is very unhappy, 
 poor boy," she said to her companion, as she 
 turned over the letter in her hand. " I fear he 
 has been crossed in love;" and she laughed a 
 little soft, musical laugh. 
 
 They both laughed over the idea in a weU- 
 bred, friendly way ; for Beatrice's friend was like 
 herself — not in his first youth, and a man of the 
 world. 
 
 '^ So you donH think being crossed in love 
 a calamity to break one's heart about?" he 
 said; "it is too great a luxuiy for worn-out old 
 people of the world like" — " us," he was about to 
 say ; but he remembered in time, and said " me," 
 which was wiser, though Miss Trevelyan was very 
 tolerant, and slow to take offence. 
 
 " Yes," said Beatidce ; " but one sees the good 
 of everything just when one has lost the capa- 
 city for it." And here, as they began to get on the
 
 Hgw it was Received, 157 
 
 edge of sentiment, -wliicli T\'as entirely out of place 
 between two who knew each other so well, they 
 both with one consent abandoned the snbject_, and 
 began to talk about Lady Golightly^s ball, which, 
 to be sure, was of the highest interest, as it was 
 to be the first of the season, and her ladysliip 
 belonged to a set wliich was not above taking 
 notice of Sir Roger Trevelyan. Tims Beatrice 
 sat talking, with her brother's letter in her hand. 
 She even went npstau's before she opened it, 
 thinkiijg not of Roger so much as of her late 
 companion, who was one of the ruined men of 
 societ}^ ^^ If he had but a little money," she 
 thought to herself, " or if any good fairy would 
 but make him selfish and stupid, that he might 
 have a chance in the world V And this was said 
 with a little bitterness, for he was one of Miss 
 Trevelyan^s great friends. After she had got 
 comfortablv settled in her room, with her dressing- 
 gown on, and her light feathery braids of hair 
 hanging loose about her shoulders, she opened 
 Roger's letter. It v>-as very short and concise, 
 but it startled Beatrice entirely out of her com- 
 posure. She gave a start which jerked her 
 lightsome locks out of her maid's hands, and 
 di-agged out a small handful of the hair, which 
 already began to grow scanty. Even in her sur- 
 prise and vexation, Beatrice was aware of this
 
 158 Agnes. 
 
 fact^ and it made her pause in lier excitement ; 
 for^ though her interest in her brother was great, 
 she could not afiford to lose any more of her 
 hair ; so she bit her lips to restrain herself, and 
 bade her attendant make haste, and read her 
 letter again with tingling cheeks. T\Tien she 
 got up after her hair was arranged, and by- 
 chance caught a glimpse of herself in the glass, 
 Beatrice was moved by a momentary thrill of 
 surprise and self- admiration. If she could only 
 look like that when there was anybody to see 
 her ! she would not have minded a little agitation 
 or even pain as the cost. This idea passed 
 through her mind involuntarily as she rushed but 
 of the room in her dressing-gown to seek her 
 father — for, in reality, she was in great distress. 
 Roger^s letter had been directed to her after two 
 days' pondering, in which it had proved quite im- 
 possible to address his father on the subject. 
 Miss Trevelyan knew that Sir Roger was in his 
 room taking care of himself, for he had been out 
 with the hounds, and had caught cold on the 
 previous day. She went softly along the cor- 
 ridor, with a shawl over her dressing-gown, and 
 knocked at the door of her father's room, to the 
 intense astonishment of Be^ds. Sir Roger was 
 lounging on the sofa in a very doubtful temper, 
 and Miss Trevelyan's unexpected appearance was
 
 Hoiv it in as Received. 159 
 
 a blessed chance for the unlucky valet, at whom 
 his master had been, as Be^-is said, "swearing 
 promiscus^^ ever since dinner ; but the effect 
 produced upon tlie baronet himself was of quite a 
 different kind, 
 
 " WTiat the deuce do you want here V said the 
 ungracious father, rising up from his sofa and 
 staring at her. The visit was so thoroughly a 
 bad precedent, that lie felt it ought to be put a 
 stop to at once. 
 
 " I have a letter to read to you," said Miss 
 Trevelyan. " Beris, I will ring when Sir Roger 
 wants you. You had better go downstairs a 
 little, and amuse yourself Do give me your at- 
 tention, papa, for half an hoiu', I beg of you. If 
 it had not been something important I would not 
 come to you like this.'^ 
 
 " TMiat the deWl do you mean by ordering my 
 man about ?" cried Sir Roger, when he found his 
 voice. " ^Tiat the deuce do you want coming 
 here ? A letter ! I suppose it's a proposal from 
 some d — d fool or other, that you're in such ahurr}\ 
 You've no time to lose, to be sure, at your time 
 of life." 
 
 Beatrice went on without making the reply to 
 this sneer, which she would have been tempted to 
 make under less serious circumstances ; and yet 
 she could not leave it altogether unnoticed. " It
 
 160 Agnes. 
 
 would be a pity to enter into that subject just 
 now^ especially as both you and I know very well 
 bow it has happened/^ sbe said ; " but I have not 
 disturbed you at present on my own account. This 
 is a letter from Eoger ; tliougli I am not going to 
 marry^ be is. I told you you would make mat- 
 ters worse by interfering. He bas made up bis 
 mind to marry tbis blacksmiths daughter. There 
 is his letter^, if you wish to read it. I wish, in- 
 stead of going into a passion, which will do no 
 good/^ said Miss Trevelyan, not sorry to have an 
 opportunity for an effectual retort, " you would 
 keep your temper for a few minutes, and let us 
 consider what is best to do.^^ 
 
 But this was by no means Sir Roger^s way; 
 and his daughter had to sit out one of his out- 
 breaks of rage and blasphemy, contemptuous, and 
 taking no pains to conceal her contempt. ^ATien 
 he had relieved himself in this way, he rang 
 ftmously for Bevis, notwithstanding Beatrice's 
 remonstrances. " Get me the letters I had yes- 
 terday," cried Sir Roger, when that functionary 
 reappeared. " Do you hear ? Why the deuce do 
 you stand staring at me like a d — d idiot ? Get 
 me the letters, you confounded ass — all the letters 
 Tve had since I came here. By Jove ! if that's 
 what he's after, he'll find out his mistake. Con- 
 found YOU, Beatrice, don't sit there sneering at
 
 Hoiu it icas received. 161 
 
 me. rU see Templar to-moiTow^ by Jove I T\ill ! 
 Pll have that old rascal indicted for conspiracy. 
 I'll cut off the young idiot " 
 
 " I am Sony to internipt you/' said Miss 
 Trevelyan^ " but you know you can't cut liim off. 
 Don't you think it would be better to make an 
 attempt by fair means to break off the mamage ? 
 I suppose they are quite respectable people '' 
 
 " Don't be more a fool than you can helj^/' 
 said Sir Roger ; '' I can't break the entail, if thaf s 
 what you mean to say, but I can cut off his 
 allowance, by Jove — eveiy penny. I'd like to 
 see him marry on what he has of his own ; and 
 
 by , if he goes into the post-obit line, he won't 
 
 make much of that. Tliey know pretty exactly 
 what Trevelyan's worth by this time, those d — d 
 fellows. Bevis, you deuced idiot, have you found 
 the letters ? I thought they were billS; confound 
 them ! Stay a bit — oh, ah, yes — here it is." 
 
 " I suppose they are respectable people in their 
 way," said Beatrice, going on with a simplicity 
 that sat strangely upon such an experienced 
 woman of the world. " To disgi-ace an old family 
 cannot be any object to them. I daresay, if they 
 were properly dealt witli, they might let him off. 
 If you win consent that I should take it in hand," 
 said ^liss Trevelyan ; but here she was suddenly 
 stopped short by Sir Roger, who, with one of his 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 16.2 Af/nes. 
 
 usual pleasant exclamations^, pitclied at lier tlie 
 letter he had just torn o]3en and glanced over. 
 It struck her hand sharply, and roused into sud- 
 den irritation a temper which, though quite under 
 restraint, was still in existence, and could be 
 roused when occasion was. It was, perhaps, that 
 chance blow, more than anything else, which 
 determined the part that Beatrice took in the 
 transaction ; for curiously enough it was the writer 
 of the letter and not the hand that threw it, 
 against which she felt indignant, as she took it 
 up after an offended pause and began to read. 
 This was William Stanfield's just and honourable 
 letter — which, but for that unlucky stroke, and 
 the resentment which had been slowly gathering, 
 might have found its way to the heart still capa- 
 ble of comprehending it, which beat in Beatrice 
 Trevelyan^s breast. The blacksmith had written 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Sir, — I had little thought when I parted with 
 you the other day of having any occasion to enter 
 into correspondence with a gentleman so much out 
 of my way, but things have happened so that I have 
 no resource but to write to you. The day after 
 I saw you I had an interview with ^Ir. Roger 
 Trevelyan, your son, and desired him on his honour 
 to keep away from my house and society. The
 
 How it VMS received. 163 
 
 young man obeyed me^ as was his duty^, but by 
 misfortune met my daughter on the road^ Avhere 
 she was passing upon her own business. It ap- 
 pears he spoke to her_, as young creatures at their 
 age will speak to each other_, and my child being 
 innocent,, made answer according to what was in 
 her heart. MTien they came to me^ which it 
 should be a comfort to you to know^ your son 
 did, honest and honourable as became a man, I 
 did all that man could do, short of contempt of a 
 true attachment and cruelty to my own flesh and 
 blood, to put them separate. This letter is to 
 tell you that I was not successful. They cleave 
 to each other as nature ordains, though it is no 
 joyful sight to see, to a man of my mind. It is- 
 against aU my hopes and wishes, perhaps more 
 than it can be against yours ; but I cannot deny 
 the truth, and the bond between them is one no 
 father can break. Things being come thus far, 
 it becomes my duty to consider my own child. 
 I am free to tell you, Sir Roger Trevelyan, that I 
 would forfeit a thousand pounds paid down, and 
 that gladly, that your son had never come near 
 my house ; but as things are there is no remedy. 
 I therefore take this means to let you know, and 
 though there can be little doubt what your opi- 
 nion will be after the sentiments you expressed 
 to me, it would still be well that we held some 
 M 2
 
 164j Agnes. 
 
 counsel on the subject^ being one^ I suppose, 
 equally distasteful to you and to me, tbougb 
 decided beyond our interference. In tlie meantime 
 I remain, Sir Roger, 
 
 " Your obedt. servt., 
 
 "W. Stanfield/' 
 
 Beatrice read tliis letter with a rising colour 
 and quickened breath. Had it been shown to 
 her in other circumstances, she would have recog- 
 nised the ti'ue spirit in it, and perhaps have 
 reconsidered her conclusions, and come to better 
 thoughts. But her long-restrained temper had 
 to find an outlet somehow, and that touch 
 at the beginning had turned all the balance 
 wrong. She saw only false pretence and hypo- 
 critical knavery in the blacksmiths distress. He 
 to pretend that he regretted the miraculous chance 
 that Avas to make his daughter a Trevelyan — Lady 
 Trevelyan, when Sir Roger's day was over ! The 
 thought that she might have to acknowledge as 
 her sister, perhaps her chaperone and protector 
 in the time to come, an ignorant country girl, 
 most probably with nothing in the world to 
 recommend her but some certain amount of 
 pink- and- Avhite beauty, which she woidd be equally 
 ignorant how to preserve and how to make use 
 of, stung Beatrice to the quick. She crushed
 
 How it ivas received. 165 
 
 the letter in lier hand in momentary fury. " I 
 asked you to leave the matter to me/^ she said, 
 " but then I supposed I had only an honest 
 countryman to deal with. This fellow must be a 
 knave and a hypocrite. Tell me, please, what is 
 the utmost you can do.^^ 
 
 She looked up, surprised to get no answer, and 
 saw Sir Roger rather redder than usual in the face, 
 fumbling over another letter in his hand. " So, 
 so — she's thereabouts" — he was saying to him- 
 self, and Beatrice, without being aware of it, 
 drew back from the table with a rustle of disgust, 
 which recalled him to the matter in hand. When 
 he heard this, he looked up at her with his usual 
 gi-ace — '^ You'd like to go, eh ? " he said. " A 
 great deal of good you'd do with your d — d 
 management. I know women too well for that ; 
 perhaps Til go down myself,'' said Sir Roger; 
 " it appears I've got a friend there. As for you, 
 you'd a deal better let the deuced idiot alone. 
 He'll waken up without a penny in his pocket, 
 the d — d young scoundrel ! I'll teach him 
 morality. I can't stop his marriage, the con- 
 founded fool, if he's ass enough for that, but 
 I've known as clever a trick as that he might 
 cheat the respectable old idiot. By Jove ! I'll 
 send down Bevis to track her out," the baronet 
 muttered to himself; but even he had grace
 
 166 Agnes. 
 
 enougli to respect the presence of Beatrice^ and 
 say it under his breath. Then_, after a moment^s 
 pause^ he fell into a fit of laughter. " By 
 Jove ! I know what Til do/' said Sir Roger ; ^' yon 
 may go to bed and sleep in peace. Bevis^ shut that 
 confounded door — or rather open it for Miss 
 Trevelyan. Good night ! Don't trouble yourself. 
 By Jove ! I know what I'll do/' said the virtuous 
 father; and so the consultation came to an end. 
 As for Beatrice^ she got up and went her stately 
 way, with a slight bend of her head, disgusted 
 and disappointed, as, to say the truth, was not 
 unusual when by any impulse she sought her 
 father. She brought Stanfield's letter with 
 her in her hand without knowing it, and when 
 she had returned to her own room, to her cosy 
 fire, and the pleasant easy-chair, in which she 
 would have lain back and dreamed, had there 
 been anything pleasant to dream about, a won- 
 derful rage and envy seized the mind of the 
 solitary woman. Who was this Agnes, that for 
 her happiness the ancient family of the Tre- 
 velyans should be thus disturl^ed ? What right 
 had she to have her own Avay and her first love, 
 and all that was sweet and dear to woman ? 
 Miss Trevelyan, for her own part, had lived a 
 great many years longer in the world, and, with 
 much more right to have circumstances yield to
 
 How it was received. 167 
 
 hcY, liad yet liad none of tlie good tilings wliicli 
 were dropping in a heap at tlie feet of this village 
 girl. Roger, though he was her brother,, passed 
 altogether out of the mind of Beatrice. She 
 thought only with a certain strange silent ftiry 
 of the other woman, for whose sake, and that she, 
 forsooth, might have what her heart desu^ed, 
 all these comTilsions were to be produced. Why 
 should this Agnes have her hearths desire any 
 more than any other woman — any more than 
 she herself, for whom no one interfered except to 
 thwart and blight her prospects ? Thus upon two 
 women at the very opposite ends of life Agnes's 
 good fortune fell like a personal injuiy. It flushed 
 with anger the warm colour of IMrs. Stanfield as 
 she wrote that letter, wliich Sir Roger was at the 
 present moment thrusting into his pocket with 
 playfid oaths and laughter ; and it deepened the 
 delicate pucker over Miss Trevelyan's forehead, 
 as she sat in her easy- chair looking into the cheer- 
 ful fire. "VMiat right had one more than another 
 to be happy, and innocent, and pure, and to be 
 guarded against all evil ? It was the question 
 both these women were asking, each out of the 
 dreary background of her OAvn experience ; and 
 the innocent girl, knowing nothing about it, had 
 already procured for herself by her mere happi- 
 ness the enmity of both.
 
 168 Agnes. 
 
 It was very wrong and wicked^ no doubt ; 
 and yet these poor souls had in their way a 
 kind of bitter reason for it ; for up to tliis 
 moment no one could have said that Agnes, 
 all untried and secure, was more worthy 
 of the safety and happiness which siu'- 
 rounded her, than they would have been in an 
 equally protected and sheltered position. If to 
 them had been given a protector as watchful and 
 tender, who could say what womanful and sweet 
 existence might not have come out of these lives, 
 of which the one was guilty, and the other worn 
 and disappointed and full of care ? It is easy 
 enough to be sorry for the sorro^dful, but it re- 
 quires a strength of goodness, and sympathy 
 beyond the common, to be glad that other people 
 are better off — infinitely better oflf than one's 
 self. These not unnatural gTudges at her happi- 
 ness did not disturb Agnes, but they created 
 a strange disturbance in the thoughts of Miss 
 Trevelyan as she leaned back in her chair 
 and pondered a letter which she meant to write 
 to her brother next morning. After reading 
 StanfiekVs letter, that was all she felt inclined to 
 do.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 
 
 iHEX ^liss Trevelyan awoke the next 
 morning, it was witli a distinct 
 sense of having something to do not 
 very usual to her; and when she 
 had time to collect her thoughts, she did not find 
 herself more leniently disposed towards the cul- 
 prits than on the previous night. As was natural, 
 she freely forgave Roger, concerning whom, in- 
 deed, the experienced woman thought only with 
 pity, as the victim of the transaction ; and when 
 breakfast was over she returned to her room to 
 write her letter to him, with so thorough a sense 
 that it was her duty, that it was impossible not 
 to imagine such remonstrances as she meant to 
 make must have an effect. A mother warning 
 her son against a crime could not have been more 
 in earnest, or felt more entirely the importance 
 of what she was going to say. Her impulse 
 even was so warm as to move her to a certain
 
 170 Agnes. 
 
 eloquence. Slie ^vrote rapidly witli a kind of 
 inspiration^ not pausing to tliink of her sentences, 
 as Avas lier custom ; for !Miss Trevelyan was one of 
 the people of whom it is common to say that they 
 write A'ery good letters. But there was no effort 
 of letter- writing in the following epistle, which 
 came direct fi'om her heart : — 
 
 ^' ]\Iy dear Roger, — Your letter has distressed 
 me very much — more than it would be possible 
 for me to tell you. I had not the slightest 
 suspicion that such an unfortunate accident was 
 likely to happen ; indeed, I quite understood that 
 you had made up your mind to turn your back 
 resolutely and for ever on the temptation which 
 was in your way. My dear brother, I am not so 
 much surprised at your want of moral courage to 
 do this, as I am at the way in which youi' hesi- 
 tation has been taken advantage of. If I could 
 even overlook the disgrace to such a family as 
 ours of the marriage you are contemplating, I 
 cannot shut my eyes to the certain misery you 
 are laying up for yourself; and I hope you will 
 suffer me to speak to you plainly and for your 
 good. I am willing to take for granted that you 
 are so far right in your estimate of the young 
 woman. She is pretty, I have no doubt, and 
 good, as you say, and must have a little super-
 
 The Efforts of the Family, 171 
 
 ficial refinement^ or she never could liave at- 
 tracted you. All this I am quite willing to be- 
 lieve ; but it is not what I am ready to allow she 
 may be, but what / am certain she is not, which 
 grieves me so deeply^ and gives me courage to 
 say all I am going to say. You have been used 
 to good society, my dear Roger. I don't mean 
 to say that many persons, even of the lower 
 classes, may not be more happy in their domestic 
 relationships than we are ; but, after all, happiness 
 is not the first consideration. You are used to 
 people who know every sort of thing, and all the 
 persons who are worth knowing — people whom 
 you can't go ^^Tong with, who are sure to be 
 acquainted with quantities of your friends, and to 
 understand your conversation, and go to all the 
 same places, and do about the same things as you 
 do. You cannot conceive how strange it feels 
 to fall out of society, and go among people — it 
 does not matter even if they are your equals; 
 country people or old-fashioned people are almost 
 as bad as if they belonged to another class — who 
 have no comprehension of your talk, and don't 
 understand your kind of life. I have tried it, 
 and I know. Women do not always continue 
 young and pretty (I wish they did), and when 
 her bloom has faded, you will find yourself with a 
 dull companion, who has not an idea how to talk
 
 172 Agnes, 
 
 to jou, and could not be amusing for lier life ; 
 and the more amiable she is^, the more entirely 
 this will be the case. And then, however fond 
 you might be of her, she will know nobody, she 
 will not understand how things are done; and 
 with so much personal talk as is always going on 
 in society, she will get utterly beT\ildered and 
 become a dull woman, and put you to greater 
 shame than ever. 
 
 Don^t be affronted with me for speaking so 
 frankly. This is all equally the case, even 
 allowing her to be a little clever, which I 
 don^t doubt she is. Just imagine to yourself 
 a country girl, who knows nobody, di'opped into 
 our society even here, though the Horsleys are 
 nothing particular. We don^t talk of books, you 
 know, which she might read and get herself up, 
 or of abstract questions which you could tutor 
 her in, as people do in novels — we talk of 
 things in general, and the people whom every- 
 body (in society) knows, and who is going where, 
 and things that are happening. And you know, 
 my dear, if you were to take a little care, and 
 make a proper maiTiage, you might aspire to a 
 much better set than poor papa cares for. 
 This is just the aspect of the subject that a 
 young man is sure never to think of. I donH 
 mean to imply in the bast that she Avould not
 
 The Efforts of the Family, 173 
 
 make yon wliat people call a good wife; but 
 think what yonr feelings would be to see your 
 wife — more especially when she was Lady Tre- 
 velyan^ which must happen some day — sitting 
 frightened and stupid at the head of your table, 
 without a word to say. A woman in such cir- 
 cumstances, if she had much spirit, would pro- 
 bably run into flirtation, which, so far as the 
 world was concerned, would be the best thing; 
 for she would always get men to stand up for her 
 by taking that line, and women might be de- 
 ceived, and think it was not so much stupidity as 
 coquetry that kept her silent in general society ; 
 but it can^t be supposed that such a state of 
 affairs would be agreeable to you. On the whole, 
 my dearest Roger, I do beseech you, think it all 
 over, and consider what I have said. In all this 
 I have not said a single word against the young 
 woman, but have taken her entirely at your own 
 estimate ; though I must say, that a woman who 
 can accept such a sacrifice, and permit you to 
 marry her at the cost of all your prospects j is not 
 the sort of woman I have been brought up to re- 
 spect. Does she consider herself worth such a 
 self-renunciation on your part ? I am sure / 
 should not, and I have advantages in some re- 
 spects, though, perhaps, I might not be able to 
 compete *!with her in others. A man who has
 
 174 Agnes. 
 
 always been trained to consider liimself tlie first 
 object, may be excused, perhaps, for sucli an act 
 of arrogance, but a woman ougiit to know better ; 
 besides, she never can better her position or yours 
 if you marry her, which a man, if he had dragged 
 a girl into obscurity, possibly might hope to do. 
 " I want to say everything I can think of, Roger, 
 my dear, dear boy, for it is impossible to make 
 too much of what you are going to do ; you will 
 find it the turning-point of your life. Recollect 
 that a man who is driven out of the society of his 
 equals, CA'cn when it is not his o^ti fault, or who 
 withdraws from it, which is almost the same thing, 
 is sure to lose caste in every way, and become 
 either a misanthrope or disreputable. You and 
 I have to struggle against something in respect 
 to poor papa, but that is a gi'eat deal harder 
 upon me than it would be upon you, if you entered 
 society as you might do ; and then, you know, a 
 man after he is married is very much confined 
 to the set his wife takes him into. That is to 
 say, of course he may meet people at his club or 
 in the world, if he chooses to go out alone, but 
 it is she that determines the society he can have 
 at home. Think over all this carefully, my 
 clear Roger, and don't think you are alone in 
 being obliged to make a decision against what 
 appears to be your happiness for the moment.
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 175 
 
 Fevr men would hesitate^ wlien tlie girl witli whom 
 they had imfortunately become inyolyed was of so 
 hmnble a rank of life ; but most men liaye this sort of 
 thing- to do, and still more, one way or other, most 
 women ! Before I was yonr age, my dear, / had 
 to make up my mind, and though the person was 
 yery different, being, as I hope I do not need to 
 say, at least a gentleman, though with nothing to 
 liye on, my sense of duty can'ied me through, 
 as I hope it will also support my dear brother 
 when he has finally made up his mind. It is a less 
 sacrifice in one sense than that which I made, be- 
 cause, so far as he himself was concerned, the j)er- 
 son whom I gaye up in obedience to papa^s com- 
 mand, was a man whom any woman might haye 
 been proud of — highly cultiyated and always well 
 receiyed whereyer he went. But it is perhaps a 
 greater sacrifice for you to giye up your own way, 
 because you haye been accustomed to haye it — a 
 thing which we poor women neyer are from our 
 cradles. I hope, after you haye considered eyerj'- 
 thing, you will write to me again a yery different 
 kind of letter from that I receiyed yesterday, and be 
 assured, my dearest Roger, of my full and cordial 
 sympathy in the painfulness of the sacrifice ; but 
 it is your duty, and it ought to be made. 
 '^Most aff'ectionately your sister, 
 
 " Beatrice TREyELyAX.^'
 
 17o Agnes, 
 
 This letter occupied nearly six sheets of note 
 paper_, for Miss Ti'evelyan wi'ote a somewhat 
 large hancl^ as is usual now- a- days, and liad too 
 much sense to cross. It was quite a bulky 
 packet w^hen she had put it up ; and she carried 
 it downstairs with her, when she went to lunch, 
 with a sense of its importance not altogether new 
 to Beatrice, who was in the habit of consoling 
 herself for the drawbacks of her life by corre- 
 spondence, as so many women do at her age. 
 Notwithstanding, when she met her companion 
 of the previous evening, she thought it good to 
 explain the unusual size of the letter she held in 
 her hand. " I have been doing a very foolish 
 thing,^'' she said, as she deposited it on the hall 
 table ; " I have been remonstrating against a 
 marriage — I wonder if my arguments will be of 
 any use.^'' 
 
 " AVhat, all that ? '' said her friend ; " if it is 
 to a lady, I daresay she^ll enjoy it, but Fm 
 afi-aid if it^s a man he^U think himself virtuous 
 if he reads half. Don^t entertain vain expecta- 
 tions of its doing any good.^^ 
 
 " It^s my brother,^^ said Beatrice, a little dis- 
 heartened. " I feel very warmly about it. You 
 know I told you last night.^^ 
 
 " So \—" said Miss Trevelyan's confidant. " I 
 remember. He does not mean to break his heart,
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 177 
 
 then, as you supposed ? '' — and lie lauglied, as lie 
 followed her into the dining-room, where most 
 of the party were assembled, as it was a wet day, 
 and eating lunch was a distraction not to be de- 
 spised. If she had said as much to a woman, 
 the chances are that curiosity at least would 
 haye made her listener a little more s^onpathetic, 
 but her male fiiend did not ask any further ques- 
 tions about the history thus indicated. Family 
 accidents of that description were too common 
 to awaken the curiosity of a man of the world, 
 who, though he had a friendship for Beatrice, 
 cared little for the fortunes of the Treyelyan 
 family, who did not seem to him at the present 
 moment to haye much to lose. Beatrice, too, was a 
 woman of the world, and knew yery well that her 
 affairs were much less interesting to the world in 
 general than less experienced persons are apt to 
 imagine ; and yet it disheartened her in spite of 
 herself to see how lightly her confidant took her 
 distress. She bore her part, howeyer, in the 
 occupations of the day in her own person with- 
 out giving the household any particular reason 
 to suspect how much she was preoccupied, though 
 it was not always in her power to restrain a bit 
 of sarcasm now and then, which gaye relief to 
 the bitterness of her thoughts. 
 
 Sir Boger, for his part, was in a much more 
 yoL. I. N
 
 178 Agnes. 
 
 jovial state of mind. He had sent off Bevis witli 
 private instructions in the morning, and he told 
 the story of his son^s folly with his usual elegance 
 of expression to his friends. " ]\Iy fool of a boy 
 has got into a d — d scrape about a woman — 
 means to marry her, by Jove ! '' said the baronet^ 
 with a burst of laughter, as if it was a capital 
 joke ; and so, indeed, his companions regarded the 
 story. Perhaps Sir Roger^s confidential agent had a 
 similar feeling, as he made his way towards Wind- 
 holm with instructions to seek out the mys- 
 terious writer of the anonymous letter which had 
 warned the anxious father of his son^s danger. 
 Though Sir Roger Trevelyan had done his best 
 to cloud and extinguish the faculties nature had 
 bestowed upon him, he still had, in his debased 
 way, a sufficiently prompt understanding ; and he 
 divined who was the author of the epistle he re- 
 ceived with an instantaneous certainty which 
 would have flattered and pleased the blacksmith^s 
 wife far more than any such "sile recollection 
 ought to have pleased her. But Sir Roger, 
 though he recognised her in the production of her 
 genius, could not have imagined any possibility so 
 wild as that she should be the wife of William 
 Stanfield. He sent his valet with instructions to 
 find her out and give her a commission to Roger, 
 Avhich perhaps, in present circumstances, he might
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 179 
 
 receive more patiently tliaii lie had sliown himself 
 disposed to listen to the advice of his virtuous 
 father. For^ indeed,, Sir Roger did not believe 
 in his son^s goodness^ nor understand the honesty, 
 the truth, and pure thoughts of a genuine love ; and 
 he had the comiction of experience that a woman 
 was the best tempter when ^ice was expedient and 
 necessary. Such was the errand upon which Bevis 
 — who, though his principles were of a very un- 
 elevated description, was, notmthstanding, some- 
 what revolted by his mission — had been sent ; and 
 his master entered into the occupations of his 
 day thereafter with an appro^dng and comfortable 
 conscience, feeling that whatever happened he at 
 least had done his duty ; which indeed, though 
 expressed in a different manner, was a conviction 
 very similar to that with which Miss Trevelyan, 
 with her letter in her hand, had come downstairs. 
 Bevis, however, who was not a principal, but 
 only an agent, went away to execute his master's 
 commission, dutiful, yet somewhat disgusted, as 
 we have seen; for somehow the depravity of 
 other people impresses a man, however hardened, 
 with a more lively sense of baseness than any 
 vice of his OAvn ; and perhaps his want of success 
 at AVindholm arose a little fi'om the fact that his 
 consciousness of the odious business he was about 
 made him unconsciously a little languid in per- 
 N 2
 
 180 Agnes. 
 
 forming it. And tlien lie set ont with a funda- 
 mental mistake^ for "svliicli,, liowever, he was not 
 to blame. He sought the woman^ much better 
 known to him than to the Windholm public, 
 among the less reputable classes of that little 
 community. It entered as little into his head as 
 into Sir Roger's to look for her among the re- 
 spectable matrons of the Tillage, and the con- 
 sequence was that he inquired in vain. Nobody 
 could identify the person of whom he was in 
 search. If he had managed to reach any knot of 
 virtuous female gossips on the Green, the lively 
 faculties of investigators so skilled and expe- 
 rienced might have seized upon the truth; but 
 the idea did not occur to the busy brains from 
 which Bevis sought his information. No one 
 answering to his description w^as to be found in 
 the demi-monde of ^Yindholm. But accident 
 favoured the search which was carried on with so 
 little spirit, and brought it to a successful con- 
 clusion at last. 
 
 When the discomfited valet was on his 
 way to the railway- station, and beginning to 
 realise the kind of reception which would be 
 given him by his master when he returned un- 
 successful, the powers which watched over Mrs. 
 StanfiekVs peace had so far forgotten their charge 
 as to put her full in the way of her pursuer and
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 181 
 
 tempter. She was coming down the road^ fidl- 
 blown and important, in her new bonnet,, arrayed 
 in all the finery with which the tillage could 
 furnish her, when her figure caught the eye of 
 Bevis. She was talking to some one at the 
 moment, and did not observe him. To some 
 one ! — it was the Vicar^s wife^ whose instinctive 
 feminine sense of something lawless and dan- 
 gerous in the strange choice of William Stanfield 
 had been for the moment overcome by her cui'i- 
 osity about the still more extraordinary marriage 
 which was now the general subject of discussion 
 at Windholm. It was in the full elation of this 
 unlooked-for honour — flushed and proud with the 
 consciousness of being at last acknowledged by 
 " the quality/^ that the unfortunate woman, 
 turning round to pursue her way home, met her 
 enemy full in the face, without any possibility of 
 escape. It was no figure of speech to say that 
 she could have sunk into the ground at the un- 
 welcome sight ; but unhappily that was easier said 
 than done, and twelve stone of substantial charms 
 are not so easily disposed of No lucky opening 
 or dark passage was at hand by which she might 
 have eluded the meeting; and she dared not run 
 the risk of being followed into any of the shops 
 or houses in which she could have taken shelter 
 in her critical cii'cum stances. There was nothing
 
 182 Agnes. 
 
 for it but to accept^ vritli teiTors inexpressible, tlie 
 insolent and familiar gTeeting sucli as no man 
 had ventured to address to her since she became 
 the blacksmith's wife, by which Bevis expressed 
 his satisfaction at the meeting. 
 
 " So, here you are at last !" he said, " and in 
 capital time, by George ! A pretty race youVe 
 
 led me all through this place ; not a soul 
 
 here seems to know you. Changed your ways, 
 eh? — turned over a new leaf? — that's a good one, 
 that is. But I've got a message for you, and a 
 deal to say." 
 
 ^' I don't want to hear nothing you've got to 
 say,'^ said the unhappy woman. " Oh ! for 
 goodness gracious sake, go away. Please God, 
 Pm a changed woman ; I don't want to have no 
 more to do with them as led me astray. I've 
 them to stand by me as won't let nobody make a 
 bother/' she cried, in desperation ; " if you want 
 to keep your own bones safe, for goodness gra- 
 cious sake, Bevis, go away !'^ 
 
 But Bevis only laughed at this vehement 
 address. 
 
 " D me if I ever saw you looking better V 
 
 said the diplomatist. " So, you're mortal fi'ight- 
 ened of me, my lady ? — so much the better for 
 me. I'm not come on my own account, ]Madam 
 — whatever your name is ; but it's a temptation
 
 The Efforts of the Family. 183 
 
 to keep it up on my 0"sni account to see yon in 
 sncli a deuced friglit. So^ you're setting up for 
 respectable^ are you? AVhat Avill you give me if 
 I donH tell V 
 
 Here, liowever, tlie terrors of the woman be- 
 came so extreme that her assailant grew frightened 
 in his turn. Her flush increased to deep crim- 
 son; her eyes wandered uneasily about her. If 
 by any chance " the master" should come in 
 sight ! — or^ what was perhaps a still greater risk^ 
 young Roger Ti'evelyan^ to whom her unwelcome 
 acquaintance would be known ! The only thing 
 to be done in such circumstances was to escape 
 somewhere^ out of sight at least. 
 
 " If you'll go to the Common PU join you in 
 a minute or two/' said the unfortunate woman^ 
 in a choked voice ; ^' it can't do you no good to 
 ruin me. I'll follow you to the Common^ I will, 
 and hear what you've got to say." 
 
 " You'll go with me, if you please, my lady !" 
 said Be^is. '' I ainH no objection ; but trust you 
 to run off and leave me in the lurch, I won't, if 
 you were to ask it on yoiu^ bended knees. We 
 have had a walk together before now, many's the 
 day," said the man, with his insolent laugh, 
 " afore you were so hoity-toity with old friends. 
 And I've got a deal to say to you, and lots of 
 messages, and something as you're wanted to do.
 
 184 Agnes. 
 
 Look liere V^ said Sii' Roger's emissary. It vras 
 only a little jeweller's box lie lield in his hand ; 
 but the tiiith Tvas, it exercised a rapidly moderating 
 influence on ]Mrs. StanfiekVs terrors — at leasts it 
 brought back other passions equally strong to 
 divide the field -svith the passion of fear. And 
 besides, there was a certain relief in turning her 
 back upon the village, even with the consciousness 
 that the village was gazing after her ; for, after all, 
 the ostrich has a certain reason in its famous 
 de^-ice, and is by no means alone in adopting it. 
 And then the lawless creatiu'e began to feel the 
 thrill of excitement, curiosity, expectation, all the 
 forbidden stimulants of which she was deprived in 
 her new life of wtue ; so that she turned back 
 and made her way to the Common by the side of 
 Bevis, recovering her composure in a manner 
 wonderfiil to see. 
 
 TMien, however, Mrs. Stanfield re-entered her 
 own house, it was with shortened breath and 
 heated cheeks, and a profusion of explanations 
 which nobody requii'ed at her hands. She had 
 met an old fi'iend, she said, and he had given her 
 a deal of news ; and if there had been any one 
 in the household suflBciently disengaged to observe 
 her, it would have been perceived that the black- 
 smith's wife was preoccupied by something 
 which was half a burden and half a goad to
 
 The Efforts of the Famihj. 185 
 
 her facilities. Slic looked at lier stepdaugliter 
 from time to time "with something between 
 scorn and indignation^ not nnmixed with a 
 tonch of pity. 
 
 "To think as she shonld set np for being 
 luckier than other folks V' Mrs. Stanfield said to 
 herself^ with panting breath; and in the idea of 
 pride being near a fall_, she could almost be sony 
 for Agnes. And it was thns that Sir Roger 
 Trevelyan's fatherly attempt upon his ^on^s ho- 
 nesty was about to be made.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A Domestic Traitor. 
 
 OI not religious^ like the master 
 and liis girl^ nor I don^t pretend to 
 be/' said Mrs. Stanfield. " Them 
 as had the bringing of me up is 
 to blame for that ; but if I ain't a saint^ at least 
 I don't pretend to nothing, as some do ; and 
 I'm your friend, Mr. Roger, all the same." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Roger, impatiently. " I am 
 sorry to be so completely nnable to understand 
 yon," he said, after a little pause, restraining 
 himself ; " but I suppose I have no reason to 
 doubt that ?" 
 
 '^No, sir, that you haven't," said the black- 
 smith's wife. And any one with a sufficiently 
 lively imagination may conceive how Roger 
 Trevelyan kept looking at the Avoman who thus 
 addressed him ; thinking (hoiTor of hon'ors!) that 
 she would soon be legally related to him, de facto 
 at least, if not de jure, occupying the place of
 
 A Domestic Traitor. 187 
 
 that ogre motlier-iii-law wlio is the fayourite 
 bugbear (according to novelsj at least) of the 
 miud of England. " No, sir_, that yon haven^t/^ 
 repeated Mrs. Stanfield, emphatically ; '^ and 
 being so, you needn^t be siu'prised_, Mr. Roger, 
 though it ain^t, perhaps, the right thing to say in 
 this house, as I^m dead against the marriage. 
 Don^t make no outcry, sii', against ^'hat I say ; 
 Fm no scolard nor religious, like the master, 
 but Fve seen a deal o"* the Tvorld, and I ain^t 
 ignorant, like some folks, Tvhat^s thought among 
 them as knoAV, of sich affairs as this.^^ 
 
 " I am obliged to you, I am sure, for the 
 interest you take in me,^' said Roger ; " at the 
 same time, I don^t see what your knowledge of 
 the world has to do with it. If this is all you 
 haA'e to say to me, Mrs. Stanfield, perhaps I 
 may go." 
 
 ^Tve a deal more to say," said the black- 
 smiths wife, who seemed to radiate heat and 
 redness from her flushed countenance through 
 the room, in which the fire was going out, and 
 from which Agnes was absent. " I ain^t one to 
 impose upon a young gentleman, whatever other 
 folks may do ; and I ain^t to say satisfied vrith 
 the master, though he knows his own concerns. 
 It^s not for me to speak, Mr. Roger, and him 
 mv \isband ; but there ain^t nobodv else to sav a
 
 188 Agnes. 
 
 word. I say^ sir^ as you^^e been tooken up a deal 
 too fast_, wlieii you Avas thinking of nothing but 
 haying yom- diyersion_, like other young gen- 
 tlemen. Don''t yon say nothings Mr. Roger ; I 
 ain^t a l^laniing of you. As for breaking her 
 hearty and such-like^, I don^t believe in no such 
 nonsense. It ain^t becoming to a blacksmith^s 
 daughter to haye a heart as is broke so easy. 
 You Avas a-haying your diversion, like other 
 young gentlemen '' 
 
 " If you were not StanfiekVs wife/^ said Roger, 
 indignantly, "I should tell you to hold your 
 tongue, and let me and my affairs alone. As it 
 is, you^ll permit me to leave the house ; this sort 
 of talk is not agreeable to me.^^ 
 
 " Stop a moment, Mr. Roger,"^ said the 
 woman, laying her eager hand upon his arm. 
 " I may be plain spoken, but Fm your friend — 
 a deal truer a friend than them as would take 
 advantage of you. You was a-taking of your 
 diversion, sir, as I say, not meaning nothing 
 wicked nor nothing serious, and all of a sudden, 
 Mr. Roger, you^-e hauled up, and can^t do 
 nothing but marry or run away. If it ain^t the 
 truth, say so ; but I knows a trick when I sees 
 one. It ain^t just and it ain^t fair, and Fm one 
 as knows the world and things that are sure to 
 be said. If I was you, Mr. Roger, I^d no more
 
 A Domestic Traitor, 189 
 
 wait to be married out of tlie blacksmith^s liouse 
 than I^d go up in a balloon. I\l take her right 
 away out of her father^s hands^ and off to 
 Scotland, if it was me/^ 
 
 Roger, who had been standing impatient, with 
 his hat in one hand and grasping the handle of 
 the door with the other, was mollified by this 
 suggestion. He laughed, and took away his 
 hand from the door, and put down his hat on 
 the table. 
 
 " That is not a bad suggestion,^^ he said. '' I 
 thought you were coming to quite a different 
 end. I wish I could ; but I don^t see how it 
 is to be done,^"* said the young man, calmly, yet 
 with a smile, as one replies to an impossible 
 suggestion. 
 
 ]Mrs. Stanfield, however, saw by instinct that 
 she had hit upon the vein she sought. 
 
 " A common person^s wedding ain''t for a 
 young gentleman like you, as belongs to the 
 quality,^'' said the tempter. " I don^t see as you 
 could bear all the noise and the wishing joy, 
 and all the tradespeople in Windholm at your 
 wedding ; and the master, he wouldn^t mind no 
 more, for he ain^t a man to make a difference. 
 I^'e a regard for your name, ]Mr. Roger, though 
 it ain^^t in my power at this moment to give all 
 the particulars ; but if there ain^t no escape the
 
 190 Agnes, 
 
 other way, 1^1 take her off, and take her to 
 Scotland, if I was a young man like you/^ 
 
 " But/'' said Roger, taking up his hat, " you 
 are a domestic traitor; and I don^t know that I 
 am not something like the same for listening to 
 you. Look here, Mrs. Stanfield; the master, as 
 you call him, is not a man to be deceived.^^ 
 
 " Lord, it^s as easy as easy V cried the black- 
 smiths wife, in the extremity of her astonish- 
 ment ; but Roger cut her short. 
 
 " It may be easy for a cheat and humbug,''^ 
 said the young man, with energy, " but not for an 
 honourable man. By Jove ! it makes a man honour- 
 able to look at him. Even if Agnes would listen 
 to such a thing — which she wouldn^t — Stanfield^s 
 not a man to be deceived. Let me go, if you 
 please ; I don^t want to hear any more " 
 
 " Just a moment, sir,'''' said Mrs. Stanfield. 
 ^^ I should have thought as a young gentleman 
 like you, as knows what^s what, might have 
 known -without so much talk, as it would have 
 been a wonderful convenience to the master. 
 Bless your heart, I ain^t going against him,^^ said 
 the woman, " not in this. I^d a deal rather, for 
 my part_, as there warn^t no marriage; but if 
 it^s to be, I don^t see, for my part, how it^s to be 
 out o^ this house. It ain^t the house you^d like 
 to ask a friend to, now — is it^ Mr. Roger ? If
 
 A Domestic Traitor. 191 
 
 you was to make up your miucl to Scotland, it 
 would be a deal more convenient botli for the 
 master and me/^ 
 
 At tliis Roger once more put down Ms hat on 
 the table. " Are you serious ?'' he said j " is 
 that really your meaning ? I can^t imagine that 
 Stanfield has such an idea. To be sure_, it 
 would be a relief to me ; but Agnes — Agnes 
 never would consent ; and I should be terribly 
 vexed if she did/^ he added, under his breath ; 
 but this did not catch Mrs. Stanfield^s ear. 
 
 " You try her, Mr. Roger,^^ said the woman, 
 confidently ; " you try her, that's all. There's a 
 many things a girl will do rather than lose her 
 sweetheart — a many more things than that'' — the 
 temptress went on, trying her ground — '^ and 
 I have known women as would rather put up 
 with a deal of ill convenience themselves than 
 insist for a gentleman as was fond of them to 
 make the sacrifice. It's a terrible sacrifice, that 
 is, Mr. Roger," said Mrs. Stanfield, looking with 
 meaning into the young man's face. 
 
 He had just been reading his sister's letter; 
 and half because of the reality of Avhat she said, 
 half because the sense of his own importance 
 was natm'ally agreeable to the young man, he 
 had assiiredly felt in his most secret heart that 
 the sacrifice he was about to make for his love
 
 192 Agnes. 
 
 was important enough to demand a little acknow- 
 ledgment and gi-atitude; wliereas the blacksmith 
 CAddently regarded the advantages as lying en- 
 tirely on the side of Agnes^ and gave her with 
 an unconcealed grudge, which commenced to irri- 
 tate a little — a very little — the temper which 
 Roger shared with his father and sister. Ac- 
 cordingly, as the purpose of the stepmother had 
 not yet made itself apparent to his mind, 
 her testimony to his extreme disinterestedness 
 was not unacceptable. Unconsciously his face 
 cleared a little, and he was more content to listen, 
 even while he disclaimed with magnanimity the 
 superiority thus admitted by the other side. 
 
 " No sacrifice can be too great for Agnes,^^ he 
 said, with some magnificence, and yet with all a 
 lover^s warmth; and then for the third time, 
 though without any immediate intention of going 
 away, he took up his hat. 
 
 " Ah, ]Mr. Roger, it's fine talking. V\q seen 
 many and many's the gentleman like that; but 
 when folks are married it makes a difference. It 
 ain't nothing but great advancement in life for 
 her ; but when the novelty^s gone off a bit,'' said 
 the experienced woman — and here she made a 
 solemn pause — ^' it's then as a gentleman feels the 
 difference," said Mrs. Stanfield. " It ain't in 
 nature as he shouldn't feel it. It's not as she
 
 A Domestic Ti^aitor. 193 
 
 ain't good — tliougli I will say as she has a bit of 
 a temper of her own, has Agnes, and dreadful fond 
 of having her own way — but it's not as she ain't 
 good. There^s a many things as folks under- 
 stand and can't explain. She ain't been brought 
 up a lady, Mr. Roger, that's what it is." 
 
 " But," said Roger, with more tolerant in- 
 dignation, "^ she is a true gentlewoman, which is 
 independent of bringing up. No more of this, 
 please ; but if there is any truth in what you say 
 about Stanfield and — and the wedding " 
 
 " Mr. Roger," said Mrs. Stanfield, '' if I don't 
 understand the master and his ways, who do ? I 
 don't say if you asked him as he'd say such a 
 thing ; but I'm his wife, and it's natural as I can 
 read in his heart," she said, with a little pride ; 
 and then seizing upon the home argument thus 
 put within her reach in passing, she proceeded — 
 " A man should make sure, Mr. Roger, as there 
 ain't nothing in his heart but what's agi'eeable 
 for his wife to see. When a gentleman makes a 
 great sacrifice for a woman and the novelty wears 
 off, and he feels what he's been and done, it ain't 
 possible to j)revent but she finds it out ; and there's 
 a many women," said the blacksmith's wife, 
 approaching the object of her commission, and 
 gi'owing breathless as she did so with mingled 
 terror and excitement, ^^ as would liefer make the 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194j Agnes. 
 
 sacrifice themselves, and take the consequences, 
 than bind a gentleman for his life '' 
 
 " "VMiat on earth do you mean ?'' said Roger 
 Trevelyan. He would have taken what she said 
 simply as implying that Agnes might have given 
 him up, but for the woman^s flushed countenance 
 and excited significant looks. It was evident she 
 meant something more important than so vain 
 and so innocent a suggestion. 
 
 " I mean what I says, Mr. Roger \" cried the 
 excited creature, getting shrill and breathless in 
 her passion — a passion made up of fear and dis- 
 like, and emy, and the sense of ^Tong in her 
 own person — '^ I mean what I says. Agnes 
 Stanfield ain^t no better than many another 
 woman as has trusted to a gentleman^s honour ; 
 but it^s her and the master to make things fast 
 and sm-e. She^ll be an honest woman, I ain't a 
 denying of it,'' cried William Stanfield' s wife, 
 breaking the bonds that restrained her — " she 
 can't be cast off, nor druv upon the streets ; but 
 she'll read in your heart as you're disappointed 
 and 'ave made a sacrifice, and I don't see as she'll 
 be more happy. She can't be cast off like them 
 as has sacrificed themselves; but she ain't no 
 better than other women, that I can see, that 
 things shoidd give Avay to her; there's a many 
 as bears shame and scorn "
 
 A Domestic Traitor, 195 
 
 R/Oger had been listening witli a stupor of 
 astonishment which it would be impossible to 
 describe. He conld have refused to believe his 
 ears_, and the words which these conveyed to him ; 
 but he could not refuse to believe his eyes^ which 
 beheld with amazement the extraordinary passion 
 in the woman^s face. When she came thus far 
 he stopped her with a moral compulsion which 
 was all but force, throwing himself upon her, as 
 it were, and cutting short her wild monologue. 
 
 '^ Good heavens ! what creature is this we have 
 here?'''' cried Roger, in his wonder. He felt 
 much as if he had seen a serpent on the domestic 
 hearth. " Not another word ! — not a syllable ! 
 Silence, woman \" cried the young man ; and then 
 he set his back against the door and looked at 
 her with all tlie honest, youthful blood tingling 
 in his cheeks. As for Mrs. Stanfield herself, 
 passion had come to its culminating point with 
 her, and she had burst forth into tears — red-hot 
 tears of rage and vexation, and that feminine 
 desire to express the inexpressible, which never 
 has any other ending. She cried much as she 
 woidd have scratched or bitten, in utter excess 
 of passion, and rage at having nothing more to 
 say. 
 
 Thus they stood for one of those long minutes 
 that feel like years in passing, he looking at her
 
 196 Agnes. 
 
 steadfastly,, she weeping Avitli an angi'v violence, 
 whicli made it still more remarkable how she 
 could stifle the sound so far as not to alarm the 
 house. Then the young man addressed her 
 sternly — 
 
 ^^ T\Tio are you ?" he said. ^^ How is it you 
 hare found admittance here ? It seems to me as 
 if I must have seen yoiu' face before. Who are 
 you, woman, and how have you contrived to 
 mask yourself and gain admission here? Good 
 heavens ! you are Stanfiekrs wife ! — how have 
 you cheated him, lied to him, to get imder his 
 roof — and then to dare to take his daughter's 
 name on your lips ! '\Miat do you imagine he 
 will say when he hears of this inter^dew you have 
 forced on me- '^ 
 
 " Oh, good Lord !" said Mrs. Stanfield. Tlie 
 tears stopped of themselves at this appeal; the 
 burning moisture dried up, as it was natui-al that 
 such volcanic dew should dry, in a moment, leav- 
 ing no trace — " oh, Mr. Roger ! you haven't the 
 heart. Fve spoke to keep peace atween you and 
 yours ; you ain't agoing to make a to-do atween 
 me and mine " 
 
 " To keep peace between me and Is it 
 
 possible that it is my father who has in- 
 spired you ?" said Roger. " Good heavens ! — 
 and vou are Stanfield's wife ! Don't sav
 
 A Domestic Traitor, 197 
 
 anytliing more. It is my duty to let liim 
 know '' 
 
 The frightened woman threw herself almost at 
 his feet in her terror. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Roger ! don^t you be the ruin of 
 me/^ she said ; " I ain^t a bad wife not now, and 
 he^s fond of me, is the master. Now, as his 
 daughter's agoing, donH you — oh ! don't you, 
 Mr. Roger, come atween him and me V 
 
 Roger took to Avalking about the room in his 
 dismay and horror. He had observed, like others, 
 the strange difference between Stanfield and his 
 wife, but, like all young people, he had smiled 
 within himself at the elderly second marriage, and 
 imagined that the blacksmith, weak like other men 
 upon that point, had been fascinated by the full- 
 blown charms of the comely vagi-ant. But now 
 he opened his eyes with consternation upon the 
 true state of affairs — or, at least, upon something 
 which resembled the truth. What was he to do ? 
 A woman, depraved and dishonoured, and not even 
 repentant, had suddenly revealed herself to him 
 in the bosom of the household from which he 
 was about to take his wife ; and it was his friend 
 — a man whom he could not help respecting and 
 holding in the highest honour — who had given 
 the shelter of his honest name to this ruined 
 creature, who was ready at a word to betray him !
 
 198 Af/nes. 
 
 Never before liacl Koger revolved so difficult a 
 question. What Avas lie to do? His duty to 
 Stanfield^ and his natural abhorrence of treachery 
 and impurity^ especially when in familiar con- 
 tact Avith his innocent and spotless Agnes^ dis- 
 posed him to make instant use of his discovery. 
 But there might be still more humiliating reve- 
 lations behind for anything he could tell^ and to 
 make such a disclosure,, and provoke all kinds of 
 ■\dllage discussion and domestic disgrace on the 
 very eve of his marriage, was too much for the 
 young man^s courage, even had he not had before 
 him the look of almost animal agony and appeal 
 with which the culprit was watching his looks. 
 When she saw a gleam of hope, she betook her- 
 self to passionate entreaties. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Roger, Til never say another word. 
 It was for your good — indeed it Avas for your 
 good. Oh, Mr. Roger ! I^m mending my ways, 
 I am. I ain^t a bad wife to the master. You 
 wouldn^t be the one to throw a poor creature 
 back upon the world as has sinned and suffered, 
 and don^t want to go wrong no more ? Oh, Mr. 
 Roger ! it ain^t for you to be hard upon me. If 
 it hadn^t a-been for one as is " 
 
 " For God's sake don't say any more,'' cried 
 Roger ; " I don't Avant to hear any more ; keep 
 your horrible secrets. But look here, Mrs.
 
 A Domestic Traitor. 199 
 
 Stanfielcl — if I ever find you in communication 
 with any member of nnj family — if ever I see 
 in you the least disposition to betray your good 
 husband, either in one Avay or another ; and if 
 you don^t at once separate yourself from — from 
 his daughter/'' said the young man, with a sense 
 of indignation and disgust which were almost 
 beyond bearing, ^' I will immediately let Stan- 
 field know what has passed to-day. You under- 
 stand what I mean. Oh no, I don^t ask you to 
 swear; an oath isn^t much, when one^s used to 
 lying; but I will keep my conditions, and you 
 know the consequence if you break yours.^-' 
 
 It was thus that this strange interview termi- 
 nated. Agnes had found some unusual business 
 out of doors that morning, and could not under- 
 stand how it was that her lover was so silent, so 
 constrained and full of thought, all the day after. 
 She thought she had offended him by her absence, 
 and, taking his offence as so much the more a 
 token of his love, exerted herself in all tender, 
 maidenly ways to gain his forgiveness. It was 
 only after he had left her that evening that it 
 came across her mind like a cold shadow that 
 perhaps he had heard from his friends, and that 
 their disapprobation was the cause of his unusual 
 gravity. Poor child ! she did not know any 
 better. She could imagine the horror, the miseiy
 
 200 Agnes. 
 
 of giA'ing cause of offence to those slie loved ; 
 but already she had penetrated Roger sufficiently 
 to know that his love to his father and sister 
 was of a very lukewarm description; and the 
 pangs that a man might feel^ even when in love, 
 when making a mesalliance, did not occur to 
 Agnes. It was she that had neglected and vexed 
 him for a whole sunny mornings that was all. 
 
 Meantime, Roger made his way back to the 
 Hall with what composure he could, chcAving a 
 cud of fancy, which was a great deal more bitter 
 than sweet. True, he was more in love than 
 ever; his eyes were touched with the heavenly 
 glamour; he saw more clearly than ever before 
 the tender graces, the natural endoTiments sweet 
 and refined, more exquisite than he had before 
 perceived in any woman, which belonged to his 
 future bride ; but along with that delightful 
 revelation there came, unfortunately, others much 
 less sweet. Stanfield, though wise and good 
 above most men, and full of natiu'al delicacy, 
 was still naturally wanting in various particulars 
 of conventional necessity, which only the closest 
 contact made apparent ; and Roger, notwith- 
 standing his love-blindness, could recognise the 
 truth of Beatrice's letter. Had he not himself 
 by times seen a young woman from the countiy, 
 gauche and silent, sitting confused in the midst
 
 A Domestic Traitor, 201 
 
 of a gay party, struck dumb by tlie accustomed 
 babble of the world ? aud Roger was not more 
 resigned than other young men to think of him- 
 self as regarded with compassion, the husband of 
 a speechless beauty, who knew nobody and whom 
 nobody knew. Then he had very serious thoughts 
 of the futm-e, with which sentiment had nothing 
 to do. He had of his o^vn nothing except a 
 little money in the funds, which he could not 
 sell out, and which brought him in something 
 like ninety pounds a year ; and his allowance, 
 which was never too regular, and which Sii' 
 Roger could withdi'aw when he pleased — a poor 
 enough prospect to marry ujDon for a yomig man 
 who had not been trained to do anything, and 
 who had not an idea what kind of work he was 
 fit for, even had he had the inclination to work. 
 Last of all, this sudden gulf opening under liis 
 feet came as the climax of all his doubts and 
 hoiTors. The blacksmith, though he was a black- 
 smith, might have been a prince as far as nature 
 was concerned ; but the blacksmiths wife ! Such 
 were the meditations that attended Roger, as he 
 left Agnes pondering on her imaginary innocent 
 fault, and betook himself to the painful gloom 
 and solitude of the shabby Hall, where there was 
 nothing to distract his thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Father and the Lover. 
 
 iHEN Sir Roger Trevelyan lieard of 
 the failure of his expedient^ his 
 wrath was great; but when he 
 ascertained (which was not until 
 after a second visit of Bevis to Windholm) what 
 was the present position of the woman over 
 whom he held snch influence^ hope retm-ned to 
 the mind of the virtnons father. '^ By Jove, she 
 shan^'t get off like that; she shall keep at it^ 
 d — ■ — her_, or we^ll expose her/" the baronet 
 said ; but within himself he chuckled, pleased to 
 know of the disgrace in which, without knowing 
 it, William Stanfield was involved. ^' Good 
 enough for him, the d — d prig,'''' Sir Roger said ; 
 " she^ll make Roger hear reason, if she keeps at 
 it; there^'s nobody like a deuced woman for 
 that;" but at the same time Sir Roger was 
 moved to take other means. He wrote to his 
 son, threatening him with every possible and
 
 The Father and the Lover, 203 
 
 im^jossible penalty ; and lie wrote to Stanfield as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Sir Roger Trevelyan informs tlie blacksmitli 
 Stanfield tliat lie lias received Ms impertinent 
 letter. As lie has no donbt it was written when 
 Stanfield was mad or drnnk^ he mil not take 
 any notice of snch a piece of impndence^ if it is 
 not repeated. Mr. Trevelyan has nothing of his 
 ovna., and Sir Roger wonld withdraw every penny 
 of what he allows him if he was to rnin and dis- 
 gi'ace himself in snch a manner^ which will show 
 Stanfield that snch a piece of villany is not worth 
 his while. 
 
 " Horsley House, March 30th." 
 
 This epistle was pnt into Stanfield^s hands 
 after he had gone in to tea, and had seated 
 himself in his great chair with the pleasant 
 fatigue of a man who has done his day^s work, 
 and come home to rest at his oavii tranquil table. 
 Por the moment, as it happened, there was no 
 one with him but Agnes, who w^as an^anging the 
 table for tea, a deft and noiseless- handmaid. It 
 was the hour the blacksmith loved most. The 
 lover was gone and all immediate trace of him, 
 and for the moment he could forget that his 
 child was no longer all his own ; and even the un-
 
 204 Agnes. 
 
 congenial wife was absent^ and for anything that 
 appeared^ this troublous year of existence might 
 never have been, and the two who were once all 
 in all to each other might have returned to their 
 former safe solitude and peace. It was this sweet 
 moment which Avas spoiled and rendered bitter by 
 Sir Roger^s letter. Stanneld was too honest and 
 true to be able to conceal that it moved him. 
 He uttered a groan when he read it, half of 
 suppressed rage, yet more than half of a pitiful 
 horror for the mind that produced it, and for 
 the possibility of such a man having power to 
 interfere in his concerns. 
 
 " What is the matter, father 't" said Agnes ; 
 and she went up to him to lean over his shoulder, 
 and read his letter, as her custom had been. 
 
 This time he put her back with a gentle 
 but decided hand; and, crushing it up in his 
 fingers, tossed it into the fire. Then Agnes 
 divined what it was. 
 
 '' Is it a letter from Sir Roger T' she asked, all 
 the little colour which was there leaving her cheeks. 
 
 " Ay, little one, it^s from Sir Roger,^^ he said, 
 with another groan, " and, but for your happiness, 
 1^1 say it was a black day that ever Sir Roger 
 had word to say to me or mine.^^ 
 
 " Don^t say so, father,^^ said Agnes, with the 
 voice of pleading that went to her father^s heart.
 
 The Father and the Lover. 205 
 
 "No_, ni not say so/^ said Stanfield; and lie 
 sat watching the ashes of the consmned letter, 
 blown about on the hearth^ without speaking, 
 "vnthout making any response to the wistful in- 
 quiring silence mth which Agues kept her place 
 behind his chair. " Til not say so/^ he went 
 on half to himself. " A man can keep silence if 
 he can do nought else. It^s but natui'c, little one, 
 but it^s hard on fathers and mothers. You have 
 no mother to pine for you^ and maybe it^s well. 
 They say women have more feeling than men — 
 anyhoWj it's harder work to keep it down. Go 
 and make the tea, and we^U speak of it no 
 more." 
 
 " But, father," said Agnes, who was now glad 
 to keep behind the chair out of sight, " you know 
 I will do nothing, think of nothing, without your 
 consent." 
 
 Theblacksmith^sbrown eyes grew luminous with 
 the smile of tender and tolerant philosophy that 
 was habitual to them. " If I was one that could 
 refuse your hearths wish, little one," said Stanfield, 
 " it might be just to speak like that ; but you^re 
 not to learn now that short of ill-doing there's 
 nothing on earth would be a sacrifice to me for 
 your happiness. And, child, his father's a man, 
 as far as man can judge, without heart or honour. 
 It matters little to me what such a man can say."
 
 206 Agnes. 
 
 '^ And lie objects ?■'"' said Agnes^ almost under 
 her breath. Not a thought that the question was 
 a selfish one occiuTed to the girl — partly because^ 
 in the unconscious self-regard of youths her oayu 
 immediate affairs seemed sufficiently important 
 to her to eclipse everything in the world ; and 
 partly because the possibility of Sir Roger or any 
 man insulting her father never entered her mind 
 as possible ; but the father, already possessed as 
 much as his just natiu'e would permit him to be, 
 with a natural involuntary sense of abandonment, 
 heard the question with an ineffable pang of 
 wounded love and pride. 
 
 " Ay, he object s,^^ said Stantield ; " that was 
 to be looked for ; but it matters little to me what 
 such a man can say. Go you and make the tea.^^ 
 
 And when Agnes went away, slightly wounded 
 in her turn, and eager to hear all the details 
 which were thus summarily abridged for her, 
 Stanfield stooped over the fire, leaning his head 
 on both his hands, and pondering, as he recovered 
 from its sting, the import of the letter he had 
 destroyed. He was not a perfect man, this tillage 
 sage. His pride, which was a fundamental part 
 of his character, was stung to the heart by Sir 
 E/Oger^s insolent note ; and as he saw the con- 
 sumed paper melt into inarticulate ashes, so the 
 intimation it contained died, so far as he was con- 
 cerned. In the face of such a warning he would have
 
 The Father and the Lover. 207 
 
 pemiitted his child to many a beggar,, proudly 
 proving thereby his litter disinterestedness : but 
 nobody should know from him, not even Sir Roger 
 himself, his knowledge of the bridegroom^s utter 
 dependence and helplessness. And then other 
 thoughts came into the blacksmiths mind. Had 
 he been as Roger, young, and with such a bride 
 as Agnes to inspire him, what could he not have 
 done for her sake ? how would he have rejoiced 
 in toiling for her, and found the meanest labour 
 beautiful ? Perhaps Roger, too, was capable of 
 such inspiration. The good man, who judged no 
 one, who believed no e\il, raised himself up at the 
 thought. At least he could wait and see ; and in 
 the meantime he said not a word of the news he 
 had just received, and took no notice of it, even 
 to himself. All the effect it had was to make 
 him more decided in the matter of the maniage. 
 It was '' the hearths wish,^^ wisely or unwisely, of 
 his only child, and in such a matter William 
 Stanfield could aflPord to prove to the world, and 
 above all to Sir Roger Trevelyan, that he was ca- 
 pable of securing his daughter's comfort without 
 assistance from any one in the world. 
 
 Thus the effect which this last argument might 
 possibly produce upon the young lover was more 
 than neutralized by the effect it produced upon the 
 father of Agnes, whose pride was now enlisted as 
 well as his affections. Not a word was said on the
 
 208 Agnes. 
 
 subject tlu-ougli the long evening, wliicli, once the 
 happiest part of the twenty-four hours to Stanfield, 
 began to oppress him now with a dreamy tedium 
 reflected from the eyes of the " little one/'' He 
 sighed Avhen she bade him good-nighty and when 
 his wife, also worn out, retired earlier than usual, 
 the blacksmith sat lonely by his silent fire, and 
 saw the ashes gTow white on the hearth. So he had 
 sat many an evening, revolving his concerns, 
 while the fire died out at his feet, without any 
 very intense sense of the loneliness of his widow- 
 hood, and with one soft delicious star on his 
 horizon, to which his mind could refer when he 
 was tired or disappointed, his beautiful and tender 
 woman-child. This grand primary element of 
 happiness had failed to the blacksmith now ; he 
 had no longer the thought to fall back upon of 
 that sweet and sacred thing which was his, and 
 of which no man could deprive him. Man had 
 deprived him of his chikrs heart, and he himself 
 had taken to himself a companion in whom there 
 was no companionship — a mate in whom there 
 was no repose to his heart. That last thought, 
 however, remained utterly unexpressed even in 
 the blacksmith's musings. He was too true and 
 faithful to say even in his secret thoughts any 
 disparagement of the woman to whom he had 
 sworn faith. "WTien the thought occurred to him 
 he lighted his candle, and retired from his place
 
 The Father and the Lover. 209 
 
 of meditation. " Poor soiil^ it^s not licr fanlt if 
 she don^t understand/^ he said to himself; but 
 sighed again as he fastened the doors, and finally 
 closed npon the world the still house,, in which 
 once there was nothing but peace. 
 
 Sir Roger Ti-evelyan had made the same com- 
 munication to his son which he had made to 
 Stanfield, although accompanied in the latter case 
 by offers and suggestions which made the young 
 man half mad with rage. He^ too, burned his 
 father^s letter with an indignation a thousand 
 times more fervent than that felt by the black- 
 smith ; but though he had burned the letter, he 
 had not got rid of its meaning. He sat in the 
 great, gloomy, faded library in the Hall, he and 
 his fire and his lamp making one spot of partial 
 brightness in the desert, and cast away his book 
 to the other side of the room, and tossed his 
 newspaper half into the fire as he abandoned 
 himself to his thoughts. Ninety pounds a year, 
 or thereabouts, was what Roger had of his own ; 
 and that idea which came so easy to the black- 
 smith did not come readily to the young squire. 
 He did not know how to work, or what to work 
 at, though the Trevelyans were poor enough to 
 have made some attempt to " better themselves,^-' 
 like the housemaids ; but it had not occurred to 
 Su' Roger to suggest this idea to his son, and the 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2]0 Agnes. 
 
 young man^s natural tastes had not as yet led 
 him to the turf, or to any other industrial pui'- 
 suit which his father might have recognised as 
 a possible profession. Poor Roger could do 
 nothings not even play whist^ except in a 
 very secondary and ineffective manner, and it 
 may be easily supposed that a man thus unquali- 
 fied could see little hope of helping himself. He 
 sat thinking it over in anything but a com- 
 fortable state of mind till the fire had died out at 
 his feet as well as Stanfield^s, leading the chill 
 and dreariness of the great, shabby, uninhabited 
 house to thrill his nerves and irritate his temper. 
 And then, in spite of himself, the letter of 
 Beatrice, and even though he shuddered at her 
 name, the remonstrances of ^Irs. Stanfield, re- 
 turned to his mind. He went to bed in such a 
 state of misery, mind and body, as Stanfield had 
 never known in his life, chilled and discoiu'aged 
 to the heart, feeling himself a martyr and a sacri- 
 fice, and not knowing where to turn in the 
 blinding web of circumstances which enveloped 
 him. He loved Agnes, it was true — not a 
 thought of being unfaithful to Agnes was in his 
 heart — but what Avas he to do ? ]\Iarry her, and 
 starve in a cottage somewhere, and never lift up 
 his head again in society ? That was evidently 
 what his sister expected for him, and he knew 
 his father too well to think of any relenting on
 
 The Father and the Lover. 211 
 
 his part. It ^as a sti'ange state of mind for an 
 accepted and triumphant lover; but poor Koger 
 was no herOj and the combined influences of a 
 withdrawn allowance and an expulsion from the 
 paradise of society, were more than he had 
 strength to bear. 
 
 He stumbled upstairs half-bewildered with the 
 multitude of his thoughts, and almost ready to 
 cm'se the day when he had hesitated and lingered, 
 instead of lea^dng Windholm for ever, as his better 
 genius had counselled him. And at the same 
 time, he could not make up his mind to give up 
 this tillage girl, who had made him so happy and 
 so miserable. If the blacksmith had proposed to 
 separate Agnes fi'om him, the young man would 
 have recovered in a moment all his eagerness and 
 determination ; but, at the same time, having won 
 her, without any more doubt on that subject, it 
 felt hard to give iip everything else that made 
 life agi'eeable in exchange. He said to himself 
 that other men did not require to buy the object 
 of their affections at so costly a price, and thi'ew 
 himself on liis bed as moody and discontented a 
 man as was in all the paiish of Windholm. It 
 was, perhaps, about the same moment that Agnes 
 woke dreaming of him, and lay all covered over 
 and hidden in the sweet darkness, not caring to 
 sleep again, because the waking dreams Avere 
 sweeter than those of sleep — for the Sir Roger
 
 212 Agnes. 
 
 who objected was as iiotliing to her in presence 
 of her own father,, who had consented. If she 
 coukl have divined the state of her lover's 
 thoughts, what sudden horror would have chilled 
 her maiden dreams ! But, perhaps, it was be- 
 cause she had so much to brave in life, when it 
 should come, that the preface was spared to her; 
 and still it Avas the woman who had the best of it 
 in this fair vestibule and ante-chamber of exist- 
 ence. She could sit and wait, peaceful and un- 
 exigent, till life came, brightening all the door- 
 way with marriage -wTcaths and blessings. So 
 while all the others threw themselves do^m upon 
 their beds agitated and restless, disturbed by 
 thoughts of what was, Agnes lay awake, and 
 planned what was to be. It seemed to her as if 
 she would like it better if Roger were, for a time, 
 disinherited, and the two were to be all in all to 
 each other. She planned how she should manage 
 for him, so that he would never discover he was 
 poor ; and how, day by day, they would grow to- 
 gether, thinking the same thoughts, dreaming the 
 same dreams. Such was the difference between 
 them at this early period of their history. She 
 was too young, too ignorant, too absolute in the 
 unity of her youth for complications, and so for 
 once in her life took her joy with both hands 
 full and cordial, accepting no doubtful omens, 
 no prelude of evil augury to the epic of her life.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Blacksmith and the Gentleman. 
 
 HE next mornings after a troubled 
 night, Roger Ti'evelyan, taking 
 counsel witli liimself, and liaving at 
 tlie bottom — all incapacities and 
 failure of intellect or training allowed for — a 
 genuine honesty, concluded upon laying before 
 Stanfield himself the decision of Sir Roger, and 
 his OTm penniless circumstances. He went his 
 usual way to the tillage without his ordinary- 
 elasticity, pondering heayily enough the position 
 in which he stood. Ninety pounds a year ! 
 Roger had heard of old palaces in Italy, of places in 
 Wales and the Highlands, where people could go 
 and economize ; but economy practised at so low 
 a rate could be nothing better than staryation, 
 and it was difficult to belieye mere^'existence pos- 
 sible on such terms. To be sure, he had heard of 
 curates with no more, but then was not a married 
 cm-ate the emblem of staryation all the world
 
 214 Agnes. 
 
 over ? There was^, however, a little compensation 
 in the thought of carrying off his bride utterly away 
 from everybody belonging to her — perhaps to 
 find some faded frescoed rooms in a Neapolitan 
 palace_, where they could teach each other Italian, 
 and where it would be less easy to discover her low 
 degree and ignorance of society; where the two 
 could exist on maccaroni and oranges, and where 
 the want of servants and comforts could be at- 
 tributed not to poverty but to the customs of the 
 country. Such an idea might be possible, might even 
 be practicable in a way ; but then there were con- 
 tingencies to be considered, which might compli- 
 cate matters horribly. When he reached the 
 forge he made his salutations to Agnes at the 
 window with as clear a brow as possible, and 
 then dived under the archway to find her father. 
 Stanfield was at work as usual among his men, 
 but Roger had never known him otherwise, and 
 up to the moment of his engagement with Agnes 
 had much admired the skilful steady craftsman, 
 primitive worker in iron, whose wisdom and 
 thoughtfulness somehow corresponded so entirely 
 with his large frame and deliberate movements. 
 But now-a-days everything was changed. Roger's 
 admiration for the man had begim to merge into 
 a vehement objection to see the father of his 
 Agnes thus occupied ; and the fitness of all things
 
 TJie BlachsiHifh and the Gentleman. 215 
 
 and evident aduptation of the man to the place 
 fretted the more the petulant young sphit, un- 
 accustomed to toleration. He felt affronted that 
 Stanfield did not immediately lay aside his tools 
 to attend to him^ and yet when the tools were 
 laid aside and the master came forth into the 
 yard to listen to his story^ young Roger felt still 
 more affronted to see the composure with which 
 the blacksmith had given up his work, putting 
 on his coat and giving his orders with an 
 apparent sense of the importance of the inter- 
 view for which the young man saw no reason; 
 for was not the cause of the interview at present 
 buried in his own breast ? 
 
 " I want to consult you, Stanfield/'' said the 
 young man. " I have had letters from home. 
 If you can spare a little time, I want you to 
 understand my position and to advise me what 
 to do.^^ 
 
 " Yes, I can spare the time,^^ said the black- 
 smith. " I gave my orders, as you would hear, 
 before I left.^^ 
 
 " T^^ly, you look as if you had known before- 
 hand, and expected me,^^ said Roger, more im- 
 patient than CA'cr. 
 
 " Perhaps I did,''^ said the blacksmith ; '' things 
 cannot go on for ever in an uncertain way. It 
 was to be expected you should have letters from
 
 216 Agnes. 
 
 home, and it was to be expected also that you 
 would pay me the compHment of consulting 
 me/^ 
 
 This statement, though perfectly natural and 
 spoken with the utmost calmness and good 
 temper, aggravated Eoger, as, indeed, it is pro- 
 bable anything said under the circumstances 
 would have aggravated him. He had to stop to 
 recover his temper and his breath. 
 
 " Your father objects as a matter of course,"' 
 said Stanfield, taking advantage of this pause, 
 '^ as he has a good right to object ; and Miss 
 Trevelyan remonstrates, I don't doubt, being a 
 good sister. Now, Eoger Trevelyan, you and 
 me are friends. You may have your faults like 
 other men, but I believe you honest and true. 
 If you're any way moved in your mind by what 
 you have heard, as would be very natural, say it 
 out like a man. Hear me first to the end. I'll 
 not blame you more than I can help, and I'll be 
 thankful to you from the bottom of my heart ; 
 and as for her, she's not a weakling, that cannot 
 bear a blow. Speak out like a man." 
 
 " What do you take me for, Stanfield ? " said 
 Roger, driven back upon his better self and 
 flaming with youthfid indignation. " Do you 
 think me a dolt or a villain ? What do you 
 mean ? After consenting to give me Agnes, you
 
 The Blacksmith and the GentJeman. 217 
 
 dare to question me like tliis ! "Wliat liave T done 
 to deserve such an insult ? I came to consult 
 
 you^ and you " 
 
 " I ask your pardon/"* said tlie blacksmith, 
 holding out his hand. It was not unstained by 
 his work, a fact which Roger remarked even at 
 this moment. " I ask your pardon/^ he re- 
 peated ; " it was because I was proud of my 
 treasure, and loth to see her undervalued. A man 
 has pride in his children according to his con- 
 dition of life, Mr. Trevelyan. Sir Roger grudges 
 you to one below you in this world, and for 
 me, I giTidge my daughter to make what 
 man or woman could call an interested mar- 
 
 riage 
 
 Roger laughed rather bitterly. ^^ !My father 
 woidd not have the least objection that either 
 Beatrice or I should make what are called in- 
 terested maiTiages ; but I suppose you did not 
 mean to be satirical when you spoke of pride 
 according to the condition of life. Look here, 
 Stanfield : what I came to tell you was this — that 
 your daughter, when she marries me, will marry 
 a beggar. I have ninety pounds a year that my 
 godfather left me, and I have always had my 
 allowance up to this moment ; but now you 
 understand what form Sir Roger's displeasure 
 takes. He tells me if I choose to marry it must
 
 218 Agnes. 
 
 be upon what I have of my own; and that is 
 ninety j^onnds a year/'^ 
 
 " Well ? " said Stanfield, lifting his luminous 
 eyes. Something from within lighted them up 
 so that they shone upon the young man like two 
 great orbs of life^ full of such ^-igour and in- 
 spiration that they dazzled him. The blacksmith 
 did not see that the matter ended there. So 
 many suggestions beamed out from him, finding 
 unfortunately but an opaque surface in which 
 there was little power of reflection, that Roger 
 felt himself suddenly disconcerted and put to 
 shame, he could not tell how. 
 
 " Well/^ he repeated, still with impatience, '^ it 
 is far from being well; the fact is, the disadvantages 
 are aU on my side. It is, I repeat, a beggar to whom 
 you are going to give your daughter. I have no 
 concealments from you, Stanfield. This is the 
 position in which my father leaves me, and I have 
 not the least hope that he will change his mind. 
 Indeed,''^ said Roger, hastily, " I will not ask him. 
 You know something of Sir Roger, Stanfield. I 
 have a repugnance to mention to him the very 
 name of Agnes. He does not understand it. 
 That^s finished and at an end ; and here am T, who 
 have the presumption to ask her to marry me 
 upon ninety pounds a year V 
 
 " I have known men that had the presumption
 
 Tiie Blacksmith and the Gentleman, 219 
 
 to marry upon what was a deal less than that — 
 and a deal more/^ said the blacksmith ; '^ npon 
 their Avilling hands and ready head^ that took 
 pride in working for their own. In our condition 
 that's the common capital^ Mr. Roger. If we 
 are to wait for allowances and money in the 
 fands^ we might wait all om' lives. It's natui'e 
 that a man shoidd work for his wife. I ask no 
 more for Agnes ; it was all her mother had, and 
 she was content.-" 
 
 " Ah ! yes/' said Roger, bitterly ; " you have 
 the use of your hands and the use of youi' head, 
 and it is easy to talk. But what is the good of 
 us, with our training ? If I were to set to work, 
 I coidd not earn as much as your apprentice does. 
 The use of good bu'th and what is called good 
 education in England, is that a man is good for 
 nothing. Stanfield, if you were as young as I 
 am, and had not a penny nor a prospect of one, 
 you would still be richer than me \" 
 
 " Tliat's as may be," said the blacksmith, to 
 whom this implied compliment had, as was natu- 
 ral, a little sweetened the disappointment of 
 finding the young man thus resign himself to his 
 utter want of resource ; " that's as may be. So 
 far as I can see from the newspapers and other 
 things I have met in my life, the men of your 
 class and traininsr can sro through more labour
 
 220 Agnes. 
 
 tlian men of mine. Not at the anvil, I allow/' 
 said Stanfield_, Avitli liis gradual deliberate smile, 
 wliicli lighted np all his face by degrees ; " that^s 
 not to be wished. But it^s harder work to labour 
 with the brains than with the hands /^ 
 
 " Yes/^ said the impatient young man, who 
 was not at present disposed to take kindly to any 
 suggestion, " Avhen a man has brains to work 
 Avith. Look here, Stanfield; you know most 
 things a great deal better than I do, but some 
 things I have had exj)erience of. I have seen 
 loads of men leave the university A\T.th honours 
 and all sorts of hopes, and then come to a dead 
 stop ; they had not a penny, no more than one of 
 youi' young blacksmiths. They did not want to 
 go into the Church and starve; perhaps they 
 hadn^t energy enough to make slaves of them- 
 selves at the bar. AAliat on earth were they to 
 do? They couldn't go into trade, and that sort 
 of thing, you know; and as for literature and 
 writing for the papers, that's overstocked abeady. 
 They might hang about at home, or they might 
 go out to Australia; but even there your black- 
 smith would do more good if he had a head 
 on his shoulders. As for you, you've got the use 
 of your hands ; for us, we can't even starve with 
 a good grace. We're the paupers of the world," 
 cried Roger, with energy quite unnecessary. It
 
 The Blacksmith and the Gentleman. 221 
 
 relieved liis mind^ liowever, to deliver himself 
 thus explicitly. ^leamvhile;, the blacksmith re- 
 garded him with that smile of tolerant incredulity 
 "which became a man of steady mind and much 
 experience in presence of the rhapsodies of youth. 
 
 " You would have me believe^ then^ that an 
 education is the worst thing a young man can 
 have/"* he said ; ^' I cannot give into that at this 
 precise moment. I've heard say that real train- 
 ings no matter what kind it was^ was good for 
 everything; and, to tell the truth, that^s my 
 opinion. If a young man learns to give up his 
 pleasure and keep steady, even if it Avere but at 
 Greek and Latin/^ Stanfield added, with a sense 
 of apology for these not immediately useful 
 branches of education, " it's always so much the 
 easier for him to work at other things. That''s 
 my opinion, IMr. Ti'evelyan. But I grant that a 
 young man trained up to gi'eat expectations is 
 under a disadvantage,"' said the blacksmith, 
 seriously ; and then he stopped short, with the air 
 of a man who has come to a grave and somewhat 
 unexpected difficulty, and does not see his way 
 through. 
 
 Koger, whose senses were exasperated into 
 unusual acuteness, felt, he could not have ex- 
 plained how, that the father of Agnes was disap- 
 pointed — not in the least by his poverty, but by
 
 222 Agnes, 
 
 himself; but by this time he had pietty nearly 
 exhausted his ill-humour and excitement^ and 
 walked on by the blacksmith^s side with a sense 
 of depression^ calmed down and a little overawed^ 
 as he seldom could help himself from being, by 
 the moderation and good sense of his companion. 
 The first part of the conversation took place in 
 the yard, where they were, however, too much 
 interrupted by people coming and going to 
 remain; and Roger had foUoAved passively the 
 steps of Stanfield across the Green and down 
 a quiet, leafy country road, leading to some of 
 the substantial houses of the village, where at 
 present there were few passengers. The conjunc- 
 tion of the young squire and the blacksmith had 
 ceased to be remarked at Windholm, for now 
 even the first outbreak of indignation and amaze- 
 ment with which the news of Agnes Stanfield' s 
 great match had been received had blown over a 
 little. The two walked along side by side, 
 Stanfield lost in thought, and his young com- 
 panion feeling very much as a dependent youth 
 might feel who was waiting for his patron^s de- 
 cision upon the future tenor of his life. 
 
 " Mr. Trevelyan/^ said the blacksmith, at last, 
 " you and me must understand each other. You 
 are indignant when I ask you if your mind has 
 been afiected by what you have heard from home,
 
 The Blacksmith and the Gentlema?i. 223 
 
 and I like yon all the better for your indignation ; 
 but then you give me to understand/^ Stanfield 
 proceeded, still with the utmost gravity and kind- 
 ness, but with a momentary inflection in his 
 voice which his susceptible hearer took for con- 
 tempt, " that a man with ninety pounds a year is 
 a beggar, and that a man with your training is 
 good for nothing, and not to be expected to work 
 for his family ; there may be truth in all youVe 
 said — but what is to be drawn from it ? That is 
 the thing most important both to you and me." 
 
 " I was coming to tliat,^^ said Roger, with 
 rising irritation. " You know my circumstances 
 as well as I do. ]\Iy wife will be Lady Trevelyan 
 one day; and the property, though it is mort- 
 gaged, is considerable. We shall do very well 
 when '' 
 
 " Your father dies ?" said Stanfield, with a 
 certain reproof in his voice. 
 
 " Yes,^'' said Roger, hastily ; " if my father 
 was reasonable and showed any consideration, I 
 should not speak so. But, nevertheless, that is 
 the case ; and in the meantime I can raise a little 
 money, and we can go abroad. There is very 
 cheap living to be had in Italy, and Agnes could 
 have masters — I mean could accustom herself — 
 I mean would enjoy seeing Switzerland and Italy, 
 and all sorts of places. That is the best plan I
 
 24 Agnes. 
 
 can fomi : it isii^t any way liighflown, as if I 
 pretended not to care for money, or pretended to 
 be able to make money, or to — to introduce lier 
 into society immediately. That is not possible 
 with so small means. I mean to be honest with 
 yon, Stanfield, and show yon exactly how things 
 stand; and that is the best plan that occurs to 
 me.^^ 
 
 Stanfield listened to the whole without any 
 further remark. He did not speak even when 
 Roger, finding the pause embarrassing, went into 
 further details. It was a bitter draught which he 
 had to swallow just at that moment. In the first 
 place, to have his child separated from him at 
 once and definitively — that he had more or less 
 calculated upon ; then Agnes could have masters, 
 Agnes could accustom herself to her new con- 
 dition — could, in short, be made presentable 
 when her young husband came into his fortune ; 
 she, who was to Stanfield in her present simplicity 
 as a princess among ordinary women. The 
 blacksmith swallowed this bitter morsel in silence, 
 schooling himself, in the tolerance of liis nature, 
 to see for the moment with the eyes, not of an 
 adoring father, but with those of a husband much 
 higher in social condition, Avho naturally desired 
 that his wife should be, not only by nature but 
 by education^ fit for her future rank. He did not
 
 The Blacksmith and the Gentleman. 225 
 
 trust himself to speak until in his gi'eat reason- 
 ableness he had attained enth'e composure^, and 
 could even agree to the expediency of additional 
 instruction for his peerless child; and then, 
 being but an erring man like other people, Stan- 
 field^s weakness of pride came into full operation, 
 and even for the moment relieved his mind from 
 that sense of utter disappointment with which he 
 had listened to Roger^s plan at first. 
 
 "Under conditions I might agree to it/'' he 
 said ; " which are, first, that you are not to raise 
 money in any way you might be ashamed of 
 aftei'wards. I will give Agnes five hundi'ed 
 pounds on her wedding-day ; it^s not a fortune, 
 but ifs a good bit of money to spend on an 
 excursion. Take her abroad, since you^e set 
 your heart upon it, and show her all the places 
 that are in books. I want no cloud upon mv 
 child^s happiness; but after, you^ll give me your 
 word to bring her back. I do not say Fll settle 
 so much on her, or 1^11 give her so much, but 
 come back when you have had yoiu- holiday, and 
 tell me your plans, and 1^11 do my best to make 
 them possible. I have only her in the world, 
 and I have something laid up for her. If you 
 consent to this, I consent to the marriage. I 
 consent to a year's holiday, Mr. Trevelyan; and 
 then you'll come back to England, and once 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Agnes. 
 
 more vre^ll talk over your plaiis_, yoii and me. 
 Life teaclies a yoimg man many lessons/^ said 
 the blacksmitli ; " and Agnes and you will be 
 more able tlien to form your notions alike, and 
 know wliat your duties are together. There is my 
 hand on the bargain ; if you are pleased, so am 1." 
 And Eoger could do nothing but give his 
 hand and his consent. To be sure, it would 
 have been more satisfactory to know precisely 
 what the blacksmith intended to give his 
 daughter ; and there was something in being thus 
 sent off with his bride and five hundred pounds 
 in his pocket for a yearns holiday wliich was 
 galling to the young man's pride. Still it was 
 so much time gained, apart from any contact 
 with the \ailgar sm-roundings, which were so 
 unfit for Roger Trevelyan's wife; and no one 
 could tell what might happen in a year ; and he 
 himself was at his wit's end, and saw no other 
 means of escape. It was all settled, when the 
 young loA'^er rushed upstairs three steps at a time 
 to find Agnes, in all the triumph and delight 
 of an expectant bridegroom ; for, at all events, 
 there were no complications in his love, though 
 there were many in the arrangements of his ojjcn- 
 ing life. Now, these serious questions could be 
 postponed a little^only love, happiness, and 
 satisfaction were to be in this holiday year.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 
 
 T was with less satisfaction^ liow- 
 evcr, that Roger replied to his 
 sister^s letter^, which he had not 
 destroyed,, like Sir Roger^s. He 
 kept it withont exactly knowing why ; perhaps to 
 prove her error to her^ when his Agnes had 
 made a triumphant entry into society ; perhaps — 
 but he did not question himself too closely ; and 
 Beatrice's six sheets of note-paper had only this 
 brusque and decisive reply : — 
 
 " If you had known Agnes I could never have 
 forgiven your letter — but you don't know her ; 
 and that is all the answer I make. Your 
 arguments would be equally applicable to an 
 angel out of heaven^ if matters could be changed^ 
 and the sons of man could marry the daughters 
 of God. I think my Agnes is the princess who 
 has slept a hundred years. All that is best ii> 
 Q 2
 
 228 Ac/nes. 
 
 the world, even wliat you call society, belongs to 
 her by nature. She will be my wife in about 
 three weeks, I hope, and then we are going to 
 Italy for a yearns happiness before we enter upon 
 more serious life ; and, to show you a little the 
 kind of people upon whom you decide so easily, 
 this indulgence is the special desire of her good 
 father. If you choose, you may inform Sir 
 Hoger that I burnt his letter, which is the only 
 response I could make consistent with any 
 shadow of respect on my side to the name of 
 father. You will learn to understand better 
 some day. In the meantime, I am very sorry 
 for you in the companionship you have been 
 forced into for so many years ; and if I and my 
 wife can be of use to you in the future, I have 
 no doubt that she, as well as I, will be pleased. 
 " Always your brother, 
 
 "Roger Trevelyan."^ 
 
 This letter was TVTitten in the presence of 
 Agnes, which may account for its elevation of 
 tone. She, for her part, looked very wistfully at 
 the epistle, thinking it might possibly have been 
 shown to her before it was finally closed up, and 
 wondering much what her lover said to his sister 
 about herself. It chilled Agnes a little to see 
 that, notwithstanding her inquiring look, the
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 229 
 
 envelope was fastened np without any reference 
 to her. It was nearly the first jar of compli- 
 cated sentiment she had felt. Was it that there 
 was never to be any communication between her 
 and Roger^s nearest relatives ? Was it that ^liss 
 Trevelyan had written of her in a way which 
 Roger did not wish to meet her eyes ? She 
 began to think^ and the beatific mist of happiness 
 began to lift a little from the suiTounding land- 
 scape. Roger, it is true, did not talk much of 
 this unkno^Ti sister ; but Agnes, with a womanly 
 longing after the other woman who was nearest 
 by blood and nature to her lover, had given many 
 a wistful thought to Miss Trevelyan, and asked 
 more questions about her than Roger was able to 
 answer. Perhaps Beatrice " objected,''^ like Sir 
 Roger; perhaps she, though a woman, did not 
 belicAC in love any more than he did ; perhaps the 
 sister had selected some impossible beautj^, remote 
 and magnificent, for her brother ; and at this idea 
 the heart of Agnes failed her a little. All at 
 once it occurred to her, that in the bright world 
 to which he was about to take her, there might be 
 some one fairer, much more perfect than she, who, 
 but for her, would have been Roger's wife, to the 
 satisfaction of all his fi'iends. This thought bore 
 more and more heavily upon her the longer she 
 kept it in her mind, and from thence there sprang
 
 230 Agnes. 
 
 a new tenderness deeper and more delicate even 
 than that first love of youth which she had given 
 to him almost without knowing it. He was about 
 to sacrifice himself for her. The pride which could 
 not accept a sacrifice — the idea of self-assertion did 
 not occur to Agnes. She had too little self-regard 
 to make possible those stinging suggestions of 
 amour in opre Avhich are natural to minds of a lower 
 order. She thought humbly of herself, poor child, 
 highly of him — all the more highly, as it began 
 to dawn upon her, that for piu'e love her lover was 
 capable of forfeiting distinctions and comforts 
 known to her only in the vague splendoui's of 
 imagination. The tears came to her eyes, but 
 they were sweet tears. That he loved her enough 
 to sacrifice the prejudices of his rank for her, was 
 only one part of that bewildering yet subduing 
 happiness ; the gi'cat thing was that her Roger 
 was one of the men who, for Ioac and truth, are 
 capable of sacrificing all things. Such was the 
 visionary conclusion to which the visionary girl 
 came in her innocence. 
 
 As for Agnes herself, she counted as next to 
 nothing in the transaction j for she was pos- 
 sessed by that profoundest humility of dis- 
 position which does not recognise itself as 
 humbleness, which springs from a temper of un- 
 bounded generosity, capable of giving all in its own 
 person, and setting the goodness of others entii'ely
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 231 
 
 to their credit^ as pure bounty, which she had 
 never deserved, yet had a heart to receive largely 
 and gratefully, to the honour of the giver. Such 
 was the manner in which she received for the first 
 time, as an actual conception of her own, this 
 sense of difference between Roger and herself, 
 and sacrifice on his part. When she went out 
 in the afternoon about some ordinary business, 
 her A^ery steps seemed to shape themselves un- 
 consciously to some gi'eat strain of music T^dth 
 which the whole world was thrilling; for na- 
 turally all the world had grown harmonious ta 
 her, for Roger's sake. 
 
 This was her state of mind when it happened 
 to her to encounter Mrs. Freke, the wife of the 
 Vicar, who had always taken an interest in Agnes. 
 This good woman had no children of her own, and 
 consequently had ceased to be quite au courant 
 with the ideas of youth; and, at the same time, 
 she had the proper prejudices of a gentlewoman, 
 and had been sufficiently shocked by the extra- 
 ordinary marriage which Roger Trevelyan was 
 about to make, to be driven into a somewhat 
 severe judgment of Agnes, notwithstanding her 
 old interest in the blacksmiths pretty daughter. 
 " Little artful thing V IMrs. Freke said, notwith- 
 standing her perfect consciousness that Agnes 
 was, of all the girls in the village, the one least 
 skilled in feminine wiles and artifices. When
 
 232 Agnes, 
 
 she s?vW the iinconscioiis victim approaching her, 
 the Vicar^s wife pounced across the road much as a 
 furious cat might pounce upon the welcome but 
 unexpected mouseling, which suddenly disturbed 
 her meditations. " Just the very person I wanted 
 to see/^ said Mrs. Freke. " How do you do, 
 Agnes ? I am going to see poor Mrs. Holden^s 
 baby, and, if you will walk with me part of the 
 way, I shall like it so much. I want to talk to 
 you, you know. I almost wonder you did not 
 think of coming up to the Yicarage when all this 
 happened, to ask my advice. I am always glad 
 when young people in the parish treat me as a 
 friend ; and you know I have always taken such 
 a great interest in you." 
 
 " Thank you,''^ said Agnes. She was rather 
 vexed to be disturbed in her own thoughts, and 
 to have the music of the spheres suddenly broken 
 up and put out of tune by this individual voice ; 
 but she turned dutifully all the same, and went 
 softly in the opposite direction by her new com- 
 panion's side. 
 
 '^ And you have no mother, poor thing V Mrs. 
 Freke continued. '^ I am always so sorry for a 
 girl who has no mother. A man may be every- 
 thing that is good and kind, but he never under- 
 stands like a woman. If your mother had been 
 living, Agnes, or even if you had come up to the
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 233 
 
 YicaragC;, as you might hare done, to ask my 
 advice, I don^t think that things would ever have 
 gone so far/^ 
 
 Agnes lifted her eyes with a look of inquiry to 
 the face of her adviser, startled a little, and won- 
 dering what she coidd mean. It was not the first 
 time that Mrs. Freke had found out that the 
 blacksmith^s daughter had beautiful eyes ; for the 
 beauty of Agnes, which was beauty utterly uncon- 
 scious and unthoughtful of itself, was of a kind 
 which is always admired by women ; but for the 
 first time the Vicar's wife was in her turn a little 
 startled by the distm-bed look, by a momentary 
 perception that, perhaps after all, those clear 
 sweet eyes had a faculty of seeing, deeper and far- 
 ther than her own. But she was old enough to be 
 Agnes's mother, and recovered herself at once. 
 
 " Yes, my dear,'' she continued, with the slight- 
 est possible severity of tone, " I feel sure, if you 
 had had a woman to advise you, that this would 
 not have happened. I daresay you think I am 
 very cruel to say so, and I daresay you think it's 
 very fine to be married to a gentleman " 
 
 " Mrs. Freke, what do you mean ?" said Agnes. 
 
 " Just what I sa}^, my dear," said the Vicar's 
 wife, " what all the parish is saying. No doubt 
 it is a great thing for a girl like you to secure 
 Sir Eoger Trevelyan's son ; but I have always
 
 234 Agnes. 
 
 given you credit for being a sensible girl^ 
 Agnes Stanfield ; and I think^ if it had been put 
 before you in the right way^ you -^-ould have seen 
 that it is not nearly so fine a thing as it appears. 
 Will you listen to me without darting off in a pet^ 
 if I show you all that is on the other side ? I 
 have always taken a gTeat interest in you, and 
 what I say is entirely for your good. Will you 
 listen to me V 
 
 " Surely/^ said Agues,, softly, half under her 
 breath. She had a little of her father^s tolerant 
 nature, but only a little, being no more than 
 twenty years old, and a woman ; and this unex- 
 pected blow struck her as cruel. She would not 
 let her mentor go on without a word of self- 
 defence. " I have never thought of it being a 
 fine thing,^^ she said, faltering. " That has no- 
 thing to do with it. It was simply — I — Mr. 
 Trevelyan '^ 
 
 " Oh yes, I understand quite well," said Mrs. 
 Freke. " I don^t doubt in the least that you 
 both think you are in love with each other; but 
 listen to me, Agnes. When a man is once secured 
 and engaged, you know, it^s against his honour 
 to draw back ; but it is different with a woman. 
 Now, please, just listen to me a little, and don't 
 interrupt. Heaven knows I only speak for your 
 good. It is always the easiest way not to inter-
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 235 
 
 fere ; but "ulicii a girl is motherless, I always feel 
 that it^s my duty to advise her for her good, and 
 if this man'iage was to turn out unhappily, I never 
 would forgive myself for not setting matters before 
 you in theii' true light/-' 
 
 All this sudden light of unlooked-for revelation 
 burst upon Agnes as she walked at a somewhat 
 uncertain pace by ]Mrs. Freke's side along the 
 long tillage street, which had the green on one 
 side, and the ordinaiy population and occupations 
 of Windholm on the other. This pace was un- 
 certain, insomuch that Agnes, the younger and 
 humbler of the two, had constantly to step aside 
 and ti'ip out of the way to let other people pass, 
 thus inteiiTipting much the important communi- 
 cation which was being addressed to her. All 
 this, perhaps, diminished a little the solemnity of 
 the counsel, but it did not lessen the effects of 
 the suggestion thus conveyed to her mind. And 
 now that her tranquillity was thoroughly distoi'bed, 
 she was anxious to hear it all out. 
 
 " Perhaps you would come in and tell me the 
 rest,^^ she said, pausing as they passed her father^s 
 door. 
 
 ^^Xo, my dear, I cannot possibly go in; but 
 come to r^Iattock Lane with me, it is quite quiet 
 there,^^ said ^Irs. Freke, crossing the same road 
 to which the blacksmith and the young squire
 
 236 Agnes. 
 
 had betaken tliemselves for their consultation 
 a few days before. It did not occur to her 
 that what she had said and was about to say- 
 was of an agitating character^ and that had Agnes 
 been the daughter of the Yicar instead of the 
 blacksmith, such an admonition would have been 
 given to her in the most sheltered retirement, 
 where the young lady would have had full latitude 
 to weep or faint or remonstrate,, as might be most 
 agreeable to her. Agnes Stanfield was of a dif- 
 ferent order, and did not require these precautions ; 
 so Mrs. Freke quickened her pace, and led her 
 victim without any compunctions into the quiet of 
 Mattock Lane. 
 
 " My dear," she said, ^^ I want to set it all 
 before you in its true light. If it had been one 
 of the young ladies at the Cedars, who was in 
 your position, I should have been tempted to say 
 almost the same thing ; but "nith you, Agnes, 
 there need be no pretences. I don^t deny that 
 you are justified in regarding it as a very great 
 match. It may well turn the head of a girl like 
 you, to think that you may one day be Lady 
 Trevelyan, and lady of the manor here at Wind- 
 holm, where you have been brought up so humbly. 
 But, Agnes, though you think it so grand " 
 
 Agnes made a little clutch at her companion's 
 sleeve, in the impulse of passionate and indignant
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 237 
 
 vexation, wliicli almost prevented lier from speak- 
 ing. " ^Tiy do you repeat that, Avlien I tell you 
 no ?'' she cried ; " I donH think anything about 
 grandeur — I would rather a thousand times he 
 was like my father/^ cried Agnes_, in the tumult of 
 her thoughts ; and then her candid heart checked 
 her and her hand dropped from Mrs. Freke^s 
 sleeve ; for, after all, she would not have preferred 
 her lover to be like her father. Had he been like 
 her father, he could not have been Roger Tre- 
 velyan ; for the atmosphere of vague superiority 
 which surrounded him had become in her eyes part 
 of himself. Therefore she stopped short ^-isibly, 
 and her adviser took advantage of the pause. 
 
 '' My dear, listen to me. I allow it is very 
 tempting to a young creature like you to have all 
 that offered to you ; but there is a great deal to 
 be said on the other side. In the first place, ^Ir. 
 Trevelyan, if he manic s you, will not receive 
 another penny from Sir Roger as long as he lives 
 — so that you will begin life as poor a young 
 couple as could be found anywhere ; and poverty 
 in your present condition of life, my poor child, is 
 a very different thing from the poverty of a gentle- 
 man, who has a position and appearance to keep 
 up. Then in the second place,''^ continued Mrs. 
 Freke, who had been copying out a sermon for 
 her husband only that morning, and had the pro-
 
 238 Agnes. 
 
 fessional style still hanging about lier, " instead 
 of being petted and tbonght a great deal of, as 
 you are at home, you Avill be entirely disowned 
 and rejected by the family; Miss Trevelyan, I 
 am sure, will never take the least notice of you_, 
 Agnes, nor any of the other relations ; and wher- 
 ever you go you will find that people are sorry 
 for your husband for having married you, and 
 look at you with unfriendly eyes for having in- 
 veigled him into it. I don^t mean that I think 
 so myself, my dear, but that is always how such 
 things are regarded in the world. Then you will 
 find yourself among people whom you cannot un- 
 derstand, and who cannot understand you; and 
 they will find signs of low-breeding in everything 
 you do and say, and in everything you don't do 
 and say. Here everybody is fond of you and 
 proud of you, for you are a very good girl, my 
 dear, and a very superior girl, for your station in 
 life; I don't hesitate to say so, because it is 
 your due,^' added the Vicar's wife, authoritatively, 
 " and you have too much sense to be vain about 
 it ; but Avhen you are married everything will be 
 quite different. You have no idea, brought up 
 as you have been, how miserable a few fine 
 ladies could make you; and then they would 
 all take to pitying your husband; and per- 
 haps — for there's no calculating on men — he
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice, 239 
 
 might be brought to pity himself, and to re- 
 pent '' 
 
 "No more^ please/^ said Agnes, who felt like 
 a stupefied traveller caught in a sudden storm — 
 the cruel words seemed to beat about her ears 
 like hail, leaving their impression on her every- 
 where, but scarcely at this moment conveying 
 anything but a vague general meaning to her 
 mind. "No more, please,^'' said Agnes, with a 
 voice which did not seem to come from her 
 throat, but rather from the stunned heart thus 
 suddenly driven into a corner. She went on 
 mechanically by her companion's side, even 
 though, struck by compunction and remorse, Mrs. 
 Freke had ceased to speak. They were still 
 keeping the path which led past the long garden- 
 wall of the Cedars ; and it was the sound of merri- 
 ment going on within, the laughter of the Miss 
 Foxes over their game of croquet, rather than any 
 reflection of her own, which awoke Agnes to a 
 sense that the voice by her side had ceased. 
 Then she came to herself a little. " If you have 
 said all you have to say to me, I will go home,'' 
 she said to her mentor. " My father does not 
 like me to be out when he comes in to tea." 
 
 The Vicar's wife turned with her victim and 
 took her hand. " You must not be angry with 
 me, my dear," she said ; " I meant it all for your
 
 240 Agnes. 
 
 good,, every word I have said^ Agnes. You 
 niTist not be angiy with me/^ 
 
 " No/^ said Agnes, with the coui-tesy her 
 father had reared her in — " no, I am sure you 
 mean it all for good. Thank you, good-bye ! 
 Just now, I don^t quite know what more to say.^^ 
 
 ^' Good-bye, my dear. I hope you will think 
 it all over ; and, indeed, you must not think me 
 cruel,^^ said Mrs. Dalton, accompanying her back 
 a few steps in her remorse. ^•' If it had been 
 any one else but you, who have so much right 
 feeling — ^Ijut you must not be angry with me.''^ 
 
 Agnes gave her a smile of long-suffering polite- 
 ness, as her only answer to this petition. Polite- 
 ness itself, even when it attains that climax of 
 consideration for the feelings of others, which 
 was William Stanfield^s ideal of " good manners,^^ 
 cannot force words to lips unable to pronounce 
 them; but she could manage to smile until she 
 had turned hA back upon her counsellor, and 
 was alone with her own heart and that world 
 which had all cinimbled to pieces under her feet, 
 amid the calm domestic suiToundings of Mattock 
 Lane. As she went home, the mist and dust of 
 this great demolition cleared off a little, and she 
 began to understand what had been said. Agnes 
 was her father's daughter, notwithstanding the 
 difference which her womanhood and her vouth
 
 Mrs. Freke's Advice. 241 
 
 made between them. She could not take refuge 
 in anger^ or in the thought that her well-meaning 
 adviser was her enemy, as most young women in 
 her circumstances would have done. She was 
 compelled by mere force of her nature to con- 
 sider what had been said, without question of 
 motive or thought of falsehood; and it was 
 enough to strike any one dumb to see the entire 
 world of imagination, of anticipation, overturned 
 in a moment, and lying crumbling and smoking 
 at her feet. 
 
 Now, however, that she had been thus rudely 
 awakened, it seemed impossible to believe that a 
 dream so profound and undisturbed could ever 
 have possessed her. She could not even tell what 
 foundation it was on which she had built that 
 impossible idyl of love and life — for even now, 
 when her eyes were opened, Agnes felt to the 
 bottom of her heart that the looks of Roger were 
 not always idyllic, but had been crossed by dark 
 enough shadows even in these sunshiny days. 
 Yet she, like every one else, like Roger himself, 
 though, perhaps, he did it after a different fashion — 
 like all of us, in our day; had been regarding that 
 life of two — that existence which lay on the other 
 side across the golden strand of marriage, as, at 
 last, the impossible life about to commence, and, 
 once for all, to be realized and made risible 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Agnes. 
 
 among men; and it was this^ and not a village girFs 
 elation at marrying " a gentleman/' which had 
 been in Agnes's thoughts. Now^ was it that her 
 friend, who did it all for her good,, had washed the 
 fairy chrism out of the girFs eyes at once and for 
 ever ? She who had rejoiced to see in her lover 
 the generous nobleness of a man who preferred love 
 to self-interest, was it, on the contrary, she who 
 was dragging him down, who was doomed to drag 
 him down all the days of her life ? to make him 
 pitied by his equals, abandoned by his friends 
 — to reduce him to poverty in the first place, and 
 to shame afterwards, when all the great ladies, as 
 Mrs. Freke said, would look contemptuously on 
 his low-bred wife ? Agnes' s heart swelled as if 
 it would have burst, and then the strength as of 
 a giant came into her delicate frame. Suddenly 
 she felt within herself a sense of power such as 
 sometimes, bought with many pangs, reassures 
 the soul in a moment of suffering. She, at 
 least, could make all sacrifices, could endure all 
 things, could suffer in his stead ; and it was with 
 this thought, that through the ruins of the world, 
 and encompassed by the mist and dust of the 
 earthquake, Agnes went, like all the others, to see 
 her father, and hear what he had to say.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Her Share. 
 
 T ^vas late, and the men were leaving- 
 the forge when Agnes entered under 
 the archway. The blacksmith him- 
 self stood at the smithy- door ready 
 to lock it up, and enter the house as usual. 
 When he saw his daughter coming across the 
 yard, the slow light that came gradually over his 
 face like a sun-rising woke in his broad brown 
 eyes. 
 
 '' Where have you been, little one V he said ; 
 and it was not until after he had asked the ques- 
 tion that he saw any traces of unusual emotion 
 in his daughter's looks. 
 
 " I don't quite know where I have been, 
 father," said Agnes; and she came in and sat 
 down, with a look of weariness, on a little bench 
 just inside the door; and then a smile, which 
 looked like a reflection from his own, came over 
 her face. " I want your advice," she said ; ^' I 
 R 2
 
 244 Agnes. 
 
 seem to have lost my way someliow ; fatlier, I 
 want you to tell me wliat to do." 
 
 The blacksmith felt his heart stir in his breast 
 with a strange mixtm'e of fear and hope, but he 
 would not let any sign of his roused expectation 
 appear in his face. 
 
 " ^Many a one comes here on the same er- 
 rand," he said; ^Mjut it is new for you, little 
 one, to ask advice — it is odd to hear such words 
 out of your lips. I suppose it's because Fve been 
 used to tell you what to do without asking," said 
 the strong man, who was moved to weakness by 
 the thought ; and he put his hand upon her head 
 and caressed and smoothed down, almost without 
 knowing it, her beautiful hair. 
 
 " Yes," said Agnes, with her eyes fixed upon her 
 hat, which she had in her hand ; " but now it is 
 time for me to take the responsibility on myself, 
 father. I am old enough. I want to ask you 
 something. It is about — and yet it is not alto- 
 gether about — Mr. Trevelyan." She raised her 
 eyes when she uttered Roger's name, and looked 
 her father in the face without flinching. Her 
 colour rose a little, but only a little. It was not 
 the moment either for tears or blushes. Most 
 people who came to Stanfield for advice came 
 with an eager desire to be adAised to take their 
 own way ; but Agnes meant to know what was
 
 Her Share. 215 
 
 right without any immediate reference either to 
 the cause or to the issue. She put down her hat 
 on her knee, and kept her eyes steadfastly on 
 her father's face. They were putting a still more 
 effectual, still more earnest question — reading the 
 answer by anticipation, while still her lips had 
 not finished asking. " I want you to tell me/' 
 she went on, " what is the truth about unequal 
 marriages. When there is a great difference 
 between two people, is it true that they are not 
 happy ? I mean, when it is the woman who is 
 the inferior. But then,'' said Agnes, changing 
 into the argument that struck her, " in books it 
 is always said that the woman is best to be a 
 little inferior. I do not understand it myself. 
 I don't see why it should make a difference. I 
 want you to tell me exactly what you think." 
 
 " My little one," said Stanfield, more and more 
 moved as he looked at her, ^' who has been talk- 
 ing this cruel stuff to you?" 
 
 '' Oh, never mind," said Agnes, ^' that does not 
 matter; the only thing of any importance is to 
 know whether it is true." 
 
 And then the two, who were so like each other, 
 and yet so unlike, paused mutually, looking at 
 each other ; for Stanfield this time felt his elec- 
 tion as universal counsellor too much for him. 
 It is hard for a man to be called upon to enlighten
 
 24:6 Agnes. 
 
 his own cliildj especially when her hajDpiness, or 
 what she considers her happiness,, is at stake. 
 
 " Because/' said Agnes^ who was still in the 
 first disturbed and argumentative stage of her 
 new lights " I don't see how it should be so. I 
 suppose my mother did not think herself or any 
 one else in the world your equals father; she 
 would not have been happy if she had. She 
 must have believed you the best and highest in 
 the world. To be sure she was right/' the girl 
 continued^ following out her own thread of 
 thought by an illustration most natural^ yet 
 which went to her father's heart; ^''but when 
 that was the case, what did it matter which was 
 the richest? Rich or poor could make no diffe- 
 rence. She could not have been happy/' said 
 Agnes, fixing her eyes on her father's face as if 
 appealing to him for the truth of what she said, 
 " if she had not known that there was no one 
 else equal to you— " 
 
 " Stop, little one, stop — don't speak like that 
 to me," said the father, from whom all power of 
 remonstrance or reasoning had been taken by 
 this unexpected address; " your mother was 
 different " 
 
 " No," said Agnes, " I did not know her, it is 
 true ; and yet you may be sure I do know her, 
 for was not I her only child ? God is not so
 
 Her Share. 247 
 
 hard upon people as lie seems/^ said tlie young 
 philosopher. " I have felt often that thoughts 
 came to me when I was alone Avithout my knowing 
 it — and who could bring them but my mother ? 
 She knew you were better than all the rest. If 
 you had been a duke^ I do not see what difference 
 it could have made ; for do you not see^ father^ if 
 you had not been more than a duke^ more than 
 a king, the man that was best in the world, she 
 never could have been so happy ; and after that, 
 what did it matter what you were V 
 
 All this Agnes uttered with calmness, as if it 
 were a perfectly stable and effectual argument, 
 and one which must be as clear to the candour of 
 her hearer as to herself; while through all there 
 was such an inference of the character of her 
 own love and expectations as smote her father 
 to the heart. 
 
 '' Agnes,^^ he said, " your mother was not like 
 you. Maybe Fm too partial to my child ; but 
 if it Avas in her to be like you, she never lived to 
 open it up. She looked up to me, as was natural ; 
 but I was young then, and no wiser than my 
 neighbours. Hush ! little one. Tell me, are 
 you going into life with that thought in your 
 mind ? ' I don't say but there may be great un- 
 happiness in unequal marriages, but there is no 
 inequality so great as to have in your heart an
 
 248 Agnes. 
 
 idea like that, and then to wake up and fmd 
 yoni'self sitting opposite an ordinary man/^ 
 
 Agnes smiled, and a faint, sweet colour flushed 
 for a moment over her features, like the reflection 
 of some passing light. 
 
 "You know most things better than I do," 
 she said — " almost everything, father — only not 
 one thing ; I know that best." 
 
 William Stanfield stood in despair before his 
 child, who had come to consult him on the grand 
 decision of her life. She was disturbed ani 
 anxious at the present moment about circum- 
 stances which gave him comparatively little 
 anxiety, but she was altogether confident and 
 secure on the other hand about the chief matter 
 of all — the question which caused him more in- 
 quietude than anything else in his life. And it 
 was evidently vain to attempt to con^dnce Agnes 
 that Roger Trevelyan was not, as she said in her 
 shy romance, embodying herself in her mother, 
 the man that was best in the world. 
 
 '^''When you put limits to me, it shows you 
 have no such great faith in me," said the black- 
 smith, smiling, with all his heart in his eyes. 
 " When folks come here in a general way, they 
 take for granted Pm good for everything — and at 
 the worst, I^m never so stupid but what I can 
 understand what they want me to say ; but you.
 
 Her Share. 2^3 
 
 little one^ Vm at a loss witli you. I^'e told you 
 the kind of inequality I^n most afeard of; Avlieu 
 one, be it man or woman, builds up an image in 
 tbeii' mind of another human creature and kneels 
 down before it; and the rains descend and the 
 winds blow, like in the Bible, and the image falls 
 to pieces — that^s the kind of inequality that 
 ti'oubles me/' 
 
 " Yes,^-* said Agnes, softly, " but that is not 
 what I asked you about/^ And then there was 
 another pause, for just then Agnes^s mind came 
 to the end of the argumentatiAC phase, and 
 plunged at once into the darkness of doubt and 
 disquietude. " If it was to make a man be given 
 up by his friends and pitied by everybody that 
 knew him — if it was to take away all he had 
 and give him nothing, or so little, in retui'u — 
 father, what would it be a woman^s duty to 
 do ?'' 
 
 When she had said these words Agnes did 
 what an honest seeker of counsel does so often — 
 she forestalled the advice she asked and con- 
 A-inced herself without waiting for it ; and ha^dng 
 done so found it impossible to attend to the an- 
 swer she demanded, and buried her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 " A woman who is strong enough for such a 
 thought would be sti'ong enough to bear what-
 
 250 Agnes, 
 
 ever there ^vas to bear/^ said the blacksmith ; but 
 after that his lips were closed — he could not tell 
 how. He could ad^dse others — he could not ad- 
 vise his child. The responsibility was too great, 
 the issue too momentous. He cleared his throat 
 again and again, and essayed to speak; but it 
 was all useless. It was the first of all the con- 
 ferences he had had on this subject in which his 
 heart and power failed liim. It is true he had 
 yielded to Roger Trevelyan, but he had done it 
 voluntarily, because the one great argument in 
 his favour, the happiness of Agnes, was stronger 
 than all the arguments that could be advanced 
 against him. But with Agnes herself Stanfield 
 lost his faculty altogether. He stood looking at 
 her with the grieved and conscious impotence of 
 a love Avhich would willingly have borne any tor- 
 tures in the world rather than harm " a hair of 
 her head.^^ But he could not guide his daughter 
 through this hard passage. And besides, she had 
 escaped from him and was fighting her battle by 
 herself, shut up within herself, with her hair 
 drooping over the small hands in which her face 
 was hidden. Stanfield stood by watching the 
 struggle with unspeakable anxiety, yet as helpless 
 as the most ordinary and dull of men. And as 
 for Agnes, she had forgotten the question she 
 asked, and was herself resohing her difficulty as
 
 Her Share. 251 
 
 if it had been at the sword^s point. Sucli mo- 
 ments pass swiftly, slow as they appear. "WTien 
 she raised her head, the light, which was waning, 
 had scarcely had time to change ; but her face, 
 which was always pale, had in that minute be- 
 come wan like the face of a spirit. 
 
 " Yes,-'' she said, " I think that is the right 
 thing to do; I cannot think of anything else. 
 If it were only me, I should not mind ; but you 
 see he has to be considered every way, father,^' 
 she continued, looking up in his face mth a 
 tender confidence which it broke his heart to see, 
 " both for his happiness now and his happi- 
 ness then ; but I think that is the only thing 
 to do.'' 
 
 Stanfield did not ask what it was on which 
 she had thus decided. He only took her 
 little cold hand and held it fast and close in 
 his own. 
 
 " Come in, little one ; it is time to go home," 
 he said. 
 
 Perhaps she thought he had suggested the 
 idea which had risen in her own mind ; perhaps 
 she trusted in the entire sympathy between them 
 to explain without words what she meant to do. 
 Anyhow, he neither asked nor did she answer 
 any question. He took her in without any fur- 
 ther words, looking at her wistfully now and
 
 252 Agnes. 
 
 tlien_, as women often look at a man^ but as men 
 seldom look at a woman. It was she in whose 
 hands the action rested for the moment ; np to 
 this time she had been_, though so deeply involved, 
 only a kind of spectator of the little drama. 
 Now, and suddenly, she had found herself out to 
 be one of the principals, and the action for the 
 moment was in her hands.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 End of the Struggle. 
 
 HIS Tras the first lifting of tlie 
 veil "wliicli^ up to this moment^, had 
 lain bright^ bnt impenetrable^ upon 
 the life which awaited Agnes_, and 
 to which she was going forward with so much 
 confidence,, when the Yicar^s vrife lent a gleam of 
 lier superior wisdom to lighten the darkness. It 
 would be difficult to tell how the night was 
 spent after the conference which has just been 
 recorded. Tlie young heroine was not^ up to 
 this time^ tearful or heart-broken ; on the con- 
 trary, her eye was bright with excitement, her 
 manner much more eager and less tranquil than 
 usual. That side of the matter which concerned 
 herself had not, as yet, come home to her ; when 
 the sacrifice was made, and the separation had 
 taken place, there would be time enough to think 
 of that. In the meantime, however, the sense 
 of impending trouble did not weigh upon Agnes. 
 She was ver^^ pale, but it was the paleness of
 
 254 Agnes. 
 
 active thought — of that conflict of imagination 
 Tvhich natm-ally^ in a mind like hers^ pervades 
 every actual struggle. 
 
 Thus she sat silent over her work all the 
 evenings goiiig o^^^er involuntarily the scene 
 that was to take place next mornings and 
 laying up arguments from everything that oc- 
 cuiTed around her : the domestic incidents which 
 she saw without seeing them^ and which somehow 
 seemed to impress themselves to-night upon some 
 inner sense,, which required no active aid from 
 eyes or ears. Thus^ for example, though her 
 eyes were bent upon her work, and her whole 
 mind absorbed in the one gi^eat question, Agnes 
 had never before conceived so vivid an idea of 
 her stepmother — of all that was known of her, 
 and all that was not known — of her manners 
 and aspect, and curious incongruity with every- 
 thing immediately siuTOunding her. This woman, 
 often so repulsive to herself, was to be by her 
 means brought into close relationship with 
 Roger Trevelyan, whose natural place was in 
 that society which Agnes had read of in books. 
 Could such a thing be possible ? And then the 
 parlom- itself, which was so comfortable and so 
 pleasant, began to explain itself to the mind of 
 the girl, and read her a silent homily. How dif- 
 ferent it was even from the simple dra-\ving-room 
 at the Vicarage ; how totally different from those
 
 End of the Struggle. 255 
 
 fairy apartments in novels,, where even poverty 
 was made lovely by grace and refinement ! There 
 was no poverty in the blacksmith^s sitting-room, 
 a fact which made it all the more e^ddent 
 that there was no loveliness. The blacksmiths 
 daughter had received from natm-e a singular 
 gift of refinement in her own mind and person, 
 but it is not easy to throw that " air of gi-ace/-* 
 which is so universal in books, over the honest 
 mahogany and damask, or possibly haii'cloth, of 
 a respectable tradesman's house ; and from that 
 consideration of still life Agnes further drew the 
 consciousness that, up to this moment, the parlour 
 had entirely contented her, and had not seemed 
 to lack anything, and that she, in short, had not 
 had any training in the elegancies of life, nor 
 felt any need of them, until her eyes were thus 
 summarily opened. 
 
 Thoughts like these when they commence 
 make rapid progress ; such dread prose in every- 
 thing surrounding her ; such dull, downright un- 
 graceful respectability — everything so good, and 
 substantial, and tradesmanlike, how was it pos- 
 sible that Roger Trevelyan could ever have for- 
 gotten himself so far as to seek admittance 
 there ? The more she thought of it the clearer 
 it grew ; and unconsciously she put her deter- 
 mination into words, and imagined his rej)ly, and 
 went through all the exciting momentous inter-
 
 256 Agnes, 
 
 view. Other incipient lights^ strange and new, 
 gleamed abont Agnes as she rushed into this 
 conflict of fancy, as if her good angel had been 
 making all the attempts possible to tear asunder 
 for good the impenetrable curtain of light 
 ivhich veiled her future. Though she had made, 
 only an hour or two before, her touching con- 
 fession of faith in her betrothed, as *^^ first of 
 men,^^ yet in this imaginary struggle between 
 herself and her lover it was not possible but that 
 Roger must take the secondary place. She 
 made him protest, she made him remonstrate, 
 she made him vow that his love Avas more to 
 him than anything else in the world ; but yet in 
 her present condition of mind it was inevitable 
 that she should win the ^dctory, and, accordingly, 
 she made him submit at the last, and withdraw, 
 leaving her heartbroken indeed, but in the 
 higher position of the two, and with just a 
 thrill of possible contempt for the man who 
 could be persuaded to accept her sacrifice. 
 
 Such were the imaginations, the impressions — 
 for it would be vain to call them thoughts — which 
 gleamed through her mind as she sat at work 
 through the long evening. Was it a vague 
 intuition of what might be, a faint, far-off sug- 
 gestion of danger, breathed into her mind as 
 Agnes, in her tender, girlish fancy, had thought
 
 End of the Struggle. 257 
 
 at other times^ by the mother, whom, j^erhaps, 
 God had not altogether separated from her 
 child ? The same gleams of prescient fancy -went 
 with her into her sleep, weaving strange dreams, 
 in which Roger was always at fault, she could 
 not tell how. 
 
 Yet, amid all this, though it is sti'ange to say so, 
 Agnes was not miserable. She was excited about 
 the battle that she had to fight ; and besides, at 
 bottom, though she was not aware of it, there was 
 a traitor in the camp. All this A-ivid sense of the 
 diflPerence between herself and her lover — all this 
 determination to sacrifice herself for his sake — 
 were utterly true and real ; and yet, underneath 
 all, by some strange complication only known to 
 the heart, there lay a certain scepticism — the 
 merest chance or possibility that truth might turn 
 out falsehood, and reality prove a fiction. Agnes 
 had come to one of those moments of life in which 
 miracles of CA-ery description seem far more pro- 
 bable and likely to happen than ordinary events ; 
 perhaps that was why, with the fidlest intention 
 to make herself wretched, and relinquish all that 
 she considered happiness in this sweet opening 
 of her personal existence, she was not in reality 
 miserable, but only profoundly excited, feeling 
 within herself a certain commotion and eleva- 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 Agnes. 
 
 tion whicli had never occurred before in her 
 youthful life. 
 
 And here,, again^ the young heroine had her 
 father at a disadvantage. He saw the gravity 
 of the position — the possible heartbreak of his 
 child; and he did not at all suspect the secret 
 hopC; unknown even to herself^ which gave her a 
 furtive and unacknowledged support. He went 
 out to his forge in the morning -with a hea"s^ 
 heart. Perhaps^ indeed^ as things appeared 
 at the moment, he might retain his child ; but if 
 it were at the cost of her happiness, what good 
 would it do him ? And Stanfield went sadly to 
 his work, leaving the matter in the hands of 
 those whom it most concerned. His daughter 
 had ceased to be the child for whom he could 
 decide; now it was needful that she should 
 decide for herself. 
 
 When Roger Trevelyan entered the black- 
 smiths parlour that morning, he perceiA^ed at a 
 glance that Agnes had ^' something on her 
 mind;''^ but what that something might be — 
 bevond, perhaps, a difficulty with the odious 
 stepmother, whom he could not bear to see in 
 the same room with her — or some pleasant em- 
 barrassment as to the future, which it would be 
 his office to clear away — the young man had not 
 a suspicion. She was alone, and she had her
 
 End of the Struggle. 259 
 
 work as usual; but not as usual were tlie eyes, 
 no longer dreamy, but full of unusual energy 
 and liglit, wliich she raised to him, and tlie in- 
 describable air of ha^dng something to say, which 
 was in her whole maimer and aspect. She had 
 scarcely patience to-day for the greetings, which 
 were pleasant enough on other occasions. She 
 pointed out his chair to him, which she had 
 placed opposite herself, in readiness for the 
 great interview, which had already been re- 
 hearsed so often in her own mind; and when 
 he sat down, feeling a little surprised and 
 checked, he saw for the first time, by the light 
 which fell full on her fi'om the window, the 
 unusual pallor of Agnes^s face. 
 
 " How pale you are ! '^ cried the young man. 
 " Are you sure you are quite Avell, Agnes ? Some- 
 how, you do not look yourself to-day — you have 
 been vexed or worried by some one. I am sure 
 you are not well."^ 
 
 " Oh yes, quite well,^^ said Agnes. " I am a 
 little more than myself, that is what it is. I 
 have got so much to say to you. Do sit down, 
 please, and let me speak. ^^ 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Roger, in dismay. 
 
 " It is only that I have a great deal to say to 
 you,^^ she said, with a little haste and eagerness. 
 ^' !Mr. Trevelyan, I have had a long dream, but 
 s 2
 
 260 Agnes. 
 
 I wakened up out of it last night. I have been 
 very near doing you a great injui'y without 
 knowing it ; and I am very thankful that I have 
 found it out before it is too late."^ 
 
 " A great injury V said the young lover^ looking 
 at her aghast — ^^ is it that you do not loAe me, 
 Agnes ? I Avill not believe you if you tell me that." 
 
 ^' There are more things in the world than 
 love/^ said Agnes, with solemnity. " That is often 
 disappointed ; and sometimes, you know — some- 
 times it does not last. I was not speaking of 
 love. I do not ask you to believe — anything — 
 that is not true. But this is true, and you must 
 listen to me. Do not be so cruel as to inteiTupt 
 me. Go back to your seat, and hear what I 
 have to say. I have been thinking it over all 
 the night. One cannot help the feelings that 
 come into one^s heart,^^ said Agnes, making an 
 effort to go on with her work. " Things come 
 before one knows ; but everybody can help the 
 acts they do,^"* she continued, suddenly lifting up 
 her face. " I do you no harm by — by thinking 
 of you within myself; but going to church and 
 being married would be a sin.^' 
 
 " A sin ? " repeated Roger, with utter amaze 
 and bewilderment in his face. 
 
 " Yes, because it would be doing you a great 
 injury,'''' said the young heroine, who in her in-
 
 End of the Struggle. 261 
 
 uocence had studied her part; and made up her 
 little speech. " Look round, ^Ir. Trevelvan, and 
 see how different everything is from what von 
 are used to. It is not that we are poor. If we 
 were quite poor, it would scarcely be so had, 
 perhaps. AYe are so comfortable, and I — I am 
 quite content with it, you know. If I were un- 
 happy, and wished for something better, it would 
 not be so bad. And then there is my father, 
 whom I am proud of — if he was not so good and 
 such an honour, you might take me away and 
 forget him ; but now it can never be concealed 
 that he is only a blacksmith, though he is good 
 enough to be a king. Don^t inteiTupt me,^'' 
 cried the trembling orator, already getting too 
 excited to remember her own premeditated elo- 
 quence — " oh, don^t interrupt me, please. It 
 is because we are not good enough and not bad 
 enough that it would be a sin. If I had been a 
 beggar- girl, it would have been a romance, and 
 you might have done it ; or, like Griselda, that 
 you read to me about ; it is because we are so 
 
 much below you, and yet — and yet .' Here 
 
 the speech broke down utterly, and came to an 
 abmpt conclusion, not in tears, but in a sudden 
 spasm, which closed her throat and made it im- 
 possible, for the moment, to utter another word. 
 '' And vet so much above me — did vou mean
 
 262 Afjnes. 
 
 to say ? '' cried the impatient lover. " I ^'ill 
 give ill to that. Who has put this nonsense in 
 your head ? No ; I ■v\ill not keep sitting thus in 
 the stocks^ looking at you. Why should I ? It 
 is too late to set me up like a target and fire 
 into me. Agnes, what does it mean ? '' 
 
 Tliis was not in the least the answer she had 
 put into his mouth in her thoughts, and then 
 her hands were held fast, which she had not con- 
 templated ; and things can be said when people 
 are face to face, in a natural attitude of opposi- 
 tion, which change their character strangely 
 when the antagonists are side by side, and as 
 close to each other as is conveniently attainable. 
 Thus somehow even her thoughts and intentions 
 oozed out of Agnes^s heart without any will of 
 her own. 
 
 " Oh, Roger, you know what it means,^' she 
 said. " I could die to do you any good or plea- 
 sure, but I cannot do you an injury. I never, 
 never, will consent to do you an injury ! You 
 will be cast off by your father and your friends, 
 and the people you live among. Oh, Eoger, let 
 me go V 
 
 " I will never let you go,"" said the young 
 man, " not if you were twenty times right, 
 instead of being altogether wrong. Do you 
 know what my father is, Agnes ? I could not
 
 End of the Struggle. 263 
 
 tell You_, but I don^t care much if I never saw 
 him again ; and the people I ought to live among 
 would let me perish before any of them would 
 lift a finger. Is it for them you would give me 
 up ? Pshaw ! you are only a Avoman, after all/^ 
 cried the lover in his triumph ; " always going 
 back to the foundation^ and trying to pluck it 
 up with your hands — such morsels of hands, too ; 
 good for nothing in this world, that I can see, 
 but to be kissed and have rings put upon them. 
 The one I can do now, the other must be done 
 as soon as possible. Listen, I have seen Mr. 
 Freke this morning; so that is all settled,^^ said 
 Roger. " Now, get your hat and come out — it 
 is the only thing to blow the vapours away.^"* 
 
 " They are not vapours,^^ cried Agnes. " Mr. 
 Trevelyan, you must listen to me. I have not 
 said half what I have to say." 
 
 " I will listen to you on the Common, among 
 the gorse bushes," said Roger, " where I once 
 listened to you before. If you were ever so elo- 
 quent, you could not improve what you said that 
 day, Agnes. Come along. If this is how you 
 employ your evenings, Stanfield must withdraw 
 his interdict. You shan't be left to plot against 
 me by night. Come, come, there is nothing 
 like the fresh air and the winds to blow this 
 nonsense away."
 
 264 Agnes. 
 
 Tliis was mucli liow the memorable attempt 
 ended. She kept up the struggle a little 
 longer, it is true, but she found nothing new 
 or more convincing to say, and obeyed him at 
 last, and went to get her hat, Avith a heart not 
 quite satisfied, and yet overflowing with happi- 
 ness. Almost the moment she left him, Roger, 
 without being aware of it, looked round the 
 room as she had bidden him, and recognised 
 the truth of what she had said. Not that he 
 made any effort to postpone that glance until 
 she should be gone ; for by this time the young 
 man had so set his heart on having his own way, 
 that Reason herself in proper person could not 
 have kept him from it. But when he felt sure 
 of having overcome her, and when she was gone, 
 he did look round the parlour, and drew a long 
 breath as he did so. It Avas quite true what 
 Agnes had said. It was horribly respectable and 
 comfortable — not poor, but a thousand times 
 Avorse than poor; a kind of house that there 
 would be little hope of getting rid of thorough- 
 ly. He gave a slight impatient sigh at the 
 thought; but if he Avas angry at any one, it was 
 only at Providence, AA'hich had neglected to make 
 Agnes rich, and of a good family. That was 
 all the length he Avent in those early days, 
 and her little protest and resistance made him
 
 End of the Struggle. 265 
 
 all the more determined on lia\'ing liis own way. 
 They went out together^ after a while, and 
 wandered across the Common and into the neg- 
 lected park, and tlirough Avonderfiil enchanted 
 countries of imagination besides — Agnes alto- 
 gether vanquished, happier than usual, though, 
 in the midst of her happiness, she could 
 not help feeling a thrill in one corner of her 
 heart, as of a wound that had been or might be, 
 it was impossible to say which. And that was the 
 last effort made to stop the mamage, which now 
 was all arranged and settled, and came nearer 
 and nearer, with steady resolute steps, as it ap- 
 peared to Agnes every night and every day.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 The Marriage. 
 
 HE day of the marriage of this 
 couple, whom everybody felt to be 
 so ill-matched, was a day of May, 
 an ideal day for a wedding. The 
 summer was early that year, and the hawthorn 
 blossoms were already on the hedges to justify 
 their familiar name. A breath of fragrance came 
 and went about the village of Windholm with 
 every air that blew, from the lilac in the cottage 
 gardens, which had not faded yet, and from the 
 May that began to flourish in the lanes ; and 
 now and then a truant breeze, more lively than 
 usual, brought a little shower of snowy petals 
 from the apple-trees over the garden walls. It 
 was still the season when everything looked 
 hopeful. The early flush of spring had not sunk 
 into that first decadence almost more sad to see 
 than the decay of autumn, which strikes all the 
 blossoming shrubs in the brightness of the
 
 The Marriage. 267 
 
 season; and the great lime-trees fluttered tlieir 
 delicate leaves softly in a sweet silence of expec- 
 tation over the honey-blooms to come. It was 
 under those lime-trees that Agnes Stanfield passed 
 on her Tredding-morning, and all Nattii'e seemed to 
 smile at her, and fling blessings and promises upon 
 her downcast head. Every bride is a type of all 
 brides^and appeals more or less to a spnpathy more 
 universal than any individual dislike or objection ; 
 and no figure could have typified better the new 
 hope of the world — the new generation begin- 
 ning — than that of Agnes_, out of whose eyes, 
 when they were visible by glimpses_, there came 
 such a wistful^ sweet demand for sympathy, as 
 few people could resist. She was shy by nature, 
 and was now as downcast and " shame-faced^^ as 
 any poet could have desired; but hers was the 
 wistful timidity which appeals, and not the scared 
 self-conscious shyness that defies sjTupathy. But 
 it was only those immediately suiTounding her 
 to whom her downcast eyes gave now and then 
 that momentary glunpse into the depths. As for 
 the crowd which filled the church, the bride 
 was unconscious of them ; no ^iilgar murmur 
 came to her ear when they led her out again 
 clothed in her new name and office. She was 
 absorbed not in her happiness so much as in a 
 strange separation and withdrawal from herself. 
 Few people are overpoweringly happy on their
 
 268 Agnes. 
 
 wedding-day. !Most women at leasts like Agnes, 
 stand for that one moment in their lives apart, 
 and look at themselves, and are spectators of the 
 wonderful crisis. To be siu'e, there are person- 
 ages, lively and energetic, to whom this strange, 
 sweet pause of being is unnecessary, and who do 
 not lose their identity for a moment ; but then, 
 as we have already said, Agnes Stanfield Avas an 
 ideal bride. 
 
 And altogether it was a strange wedding. If 
 she had married a man of her own condition, all 
 the worthiest people of their class in Windholm 
 would naturally have done honour to the wed- 
 ding; but, under the circumstances, a wedding- 
 party of Windholm folks, all smiling and con- 
 gratulatory, would have been more than the 
 bridegroom was equal to. He had so far gained 
 a victory over himself as to call from town one 
 friend, upon whom he could rely to support him 
 on the occasion — a Cornwall man and neighboui' 
 at home, the same Fred Pendarves to whose care 
 Beatrice had recommended her brother when she 
 applauded his wise intention of leaving the Hall, 
 without any explanation with Agnes. Pendarves 
 was a young man of exemplary gravity, going in 
 for public life, and already in Parliament, and 
 bent upon making his way — a rising man, sure 
 and steady, who observed everything and said 
 little, and was a safe friend for that or any other
 
 The Marriage. 269 
 
 emergency. He stood by Roger during the 
 ceremony of his marriage as he might have stood 
 by him had he been put upon his trial for some 
 capital oflPence^ maintaining in the one case, as 
 he would have done in the other,, for his friend^s 
 interest, a discreet silence. Besides Pendarves, 
 the party consisted only of Stanfield, of Polly 
 Thompson — the niece of the Miss Thompsons, 
 whose school Agnes had attended, a girl en- 
 tirely devoted to the blacksmith^s daughter, Init 
 who was awed into silence by the magnificent 
 position in which she found herself; and Mrs. 
 Freke, the Vicar^s wife, who, a little remorseful 
 after her remonstrance, had made up matters by 
 offering for this eventful day to take the place of 
 the bride^s mother. Mrs. Stanfield, who had 
 been much subdued since her unsuccessful inter- 
 vie av mtli Roger, shrinking from his presence, 
 and carefully abstaining from anything that 
 could attract his notice, had, by a wonderful act 
 of self-denial, declined to be present, to the great 
 amazement but secret relief of the blacksmith. 
 Such was the little group Avhich surrounded the 
 altar, where Mr. Preke himself stood, in a little 
 excitement, making reflections which may be 
 hereafter submitted to the reader. Roger, in the 
 height of his triumph, receiving Agnes and his 
 own Avay at the same supreme moment, and full 
 of natural excitement and a little agitation, was
 
 270 Agnes, 
 
 less troubled, fortunately, by tlie complication 
 of his circumstances at this hour than he had 
 ever been; but for the four people ^\\\o stood 
 behind these t>yo, their feelings were various 
 enough to bear distinct recording. 
 
 As for Stanfield himself, a sadness which 
 he could not shake off possessed him — a kind 
 of soft and pensive shadow of what he might 
 have felt had it been the burial instead of 
 the marriage of his daughter, at which he 
 held his place. It was a farewell scarcely 
 less solemn he was saying. If the blacksmith 
 could deceive himself by times in respect to the 
 future, and imagine his son-in-law seeking his 
 society and taking his advice, that pleasant de- 
 lusion did not serve him at this moment. He 
 saw his child going, fearless and ignorant, into a 
 world almost as unknown to him as the world 
 on the other side of the grave, and in which he 
 could give her no help or guidance ; and he saw, 
 what was a lesser matter, his own life lying 
 barren and solitary, no longer to be sweetened 
 by the one sole creature in the world who had 
 been entirely his own. He stood with his calm, 
 brown eyes dwelling upon his child, and his lips 
 just touched with a smile which was more 
 pathetic than tears ; feeling no positive anguish, 
 but a sense of infinite languor, sadness, a kind 
 of dissolution. The sunshine was about to die
 
 The Marriage. 271 
 
 off from liim^ and here lie stood iu its last rays^ 
 trying to make the most of them, and to take 
 pleasure in the sight of her happiness, although 
 it was not hajDpiness for him. 
 
 And beside Stanfield stood the maiden PoUy, 
 whose excitement was past describing, whose 
 eyes Avere dancing, whose cheeks were bui-n- 
 ing, whose innocent little soul was wound up 
 to such a pitch of fright and ecstasy, that 
 only the awe of the place she was in, and of 
 her immediate companions there, kept her from 
 hysterical laughter and tears. Polly^s white frock 
 brushed now and then the spotless habiliments 
 of Mr. Pendarves, who was in ParKament, and 
 might be prime minister, for anything the little 
 maiden knew. AVhat if it might some time come 
 to Polh^s turn to make a gi'eat marriage, as 
 Agnes was doing ! — what if anything so magnifi- 
 cent as the upright figure by her side might 
 some day fall to PoUVs share, and the little 
 \illage maid be translated into a vague paradise 
 of silk dresses and jewels, and balls and theatres ! 
 Such a suggestion was inevitable to the proximity 
 in which she found herself, and Polly accordingly 
 was much less able to take care of herself and 
 her little momentaiy duties than Agnes was, Avho 
 gave her a glance of kind warning at the crisis 
 of affairs, when the excitement had become too 
 much for her. ^Irs. Frekc, possessed by very
 
 272 Agnes. 
 
 different sentiments^ stood beliind tins little 
 hysterical creatiu-e;, disposed sometimes to give 
 lier " a good shake/' and bring her to her senses, 
 for who was she that she slionld put her little 
 shoulders up, and show intentions of sobbing 
 over a matter which concerned her so little? 
 Any absurd exhibition of " feelings" on Polly's 
 part was naturally too much for the patience of 
 any one capable of appreciating the true aspect 
 of affairs. 
 
 Mrs. Freke Avas a good woman, although in her 
 zeal she had been a little hard upon Agnes. She 
 stood saying to herself, '^ Poor thing ! poor 
 thing !" AA'itli a true and tender pity for the 
 innocent bride. " She will be sui'e to meet hard 
 usage in the family and in the world, and how 
 will she bear it ?'" the kind woman said to herself; 
 not knowing much, it was true, of Agnes, except 
 as a daughter adored by her father, and brought 
 up in the village as a thing apart. The Vicar's 
 wife knew nothing more of the bride than that 
 she was sensitive and delicate of mind to a degree 
 almost unknown in her station. She saw the 
 grace of the lily and the fragile looks, and did not 
 recollect that by times grace is only the cloak 
 and garment of strength; therefore she said in 
 her heart, " Poor thing ! poor thing !" and looked 
 on with pity at the marriage. As for Mr. 
 Pendarves, he was not a man to waste liis august
 
 The Marriage. 273 
 
 thoughts on siidi an affair. Any feeling that 
 struck him after the first shock of amazement 
 and pity (thougli such words are infinitely too 
 strong to express the moderate and well- controlled 
 sentiments of the young statesman), was a bland 
 curiosity as to the customs and hahits of the 
 lower classes in respect to such an important 
 ceremony as maiTiage, which afforded him some 
 slight compensation for his trouble. Such a study 
 w^as always in the way of his art, and might 
 come in, ayIio could tell? in some speech upon 
 the marriage-laws of New Zealand or Timbuctoo. 
 Behind the immediate circle which was ani- 
 mated by feelings so different, the church was 
 filled with a curious miscellaneous audience, 
 equally varied in their sentiments. Half the 
 female population of Windholm had come to see 
 Agnes married — some with a touch of Avomanly 
 sympathy, but most with the lively and virtuous 
 disapprobation of a crowd which suddenly sees 
 one of its members, without any sufficient reason, 
 elevated over its head. The ISIiss Foxes, from 
 the Cedars, were in their family pew, looking on 
 from a dignified distance, the eldest shaking 
 her head, now and then, with such an air of s^nnpa- 
 thetic gloom as might have become a grand- 
 duchess compelled to assist at a ceremony by 
 which a prince of the blood demeaned himself to 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 Agnes, 
 
 a peasant ; the middle one in miscliievons spirits, 
 talkative and satirical, and now and tlien falling 
 back behind her sisters in fits of suppressed 
 laughter as the absni'dity of the matter stmck 
 her. The youngest, on the contrary, who had 
 once half imagined herself in love with Roger, 
 gave way to a few tears, and looked at the bride 
 with a sentimental longing to become immediately 
 her bosom friend and guardian angel, and teach 
 her '^ how to make him happy." And the Miss 
 Foxes were tolerable types of the audience in 
 general. '\Mien the bride and bridegroom made 
 their way out of church, they did not meet the 
 congratulatory countenances common on such 
 occasions. No flowers, neither real nor imagi- 
 naiy, were scattered in their way. A little 
 natural sympathy, a great deal of A-irtuous pity, 
 much cm-iosity and wonder, were in the faces of 
 the spectators. The two who went down the 
 aisle together, radiant in youth, and hope, and 
 happiness, were about to work out a great pro- 
 blem for the amusement and edification of the 
 public; and the public did not feel itself called 
 upon on this, as on most occasions, to veil its 
 curiosity and scepticism under the ordinary dis- 
 guise of smiles. Fortunately, neither the bride- 
 groom nor bride were in the least degree the 
 wiser; they had love, at least, the one gi'eat
 
 The Marriage. 275 
 
 primitive foundation to build happiness upon^ and 
 neither of them had any doubts upon that subject. 
 So they went off from the church-door, leading a 
 workl of speculations behind them, and in an 
 hour after had carried their problem out of 
 Windholm into the great indifferent world. 
 
 '' HaiTiet/' said Mr. Fieke, '' don't talk to me 
 about Providence ; I don't understand Providence, 
 I tell you. Lord bless us ! what a horrible mis- 
 take. It's all very well to talk of Sir Roger 
 Trevelyan's son, and so forth. AVhat do you 
 imagine men and women were made for? — that's 
 the question. I was in twenty minds to stop 
 the marriage myself, and say I knew of an im- 
 pediment. Good life ! what a mistake marriage 
 is !" 
 
 " That is not very, flattering to me, Mr. Freke," 
 said his wife. 
 
 " Pshaw ! you know I don't mean you, though 
 you do talk great nonsense sometimes. I don't 
 want to go against the Articles and so forth ; but 
 if that sort of thing is all that Providence can do, 
 I'll go and read Robertson's sermon ^ On the 
 Illusions of Life ;' not that I approve of Robert- 
 son's sermon, mind you," said the Yicar, turn- 
 ing round as he reached the door. "So far as I 
 can make out, he represents God to be pretty 
 nearly deceiving us for our good, which is a 
 T 2
 
 276 Agnes. 
 
 view of the matter I riever will give in to. But, 
 good heavens ! when one has just come from a 
 business like this V 
 
 " "^^Tiat do you object to in it?^^ asked Mrs. 
 Freke ; a question which roused her husband into 
 a momentary boundless fm-y. 
 
 "TMiat I object to? Everything!'' he said. 
 " That girl, if she had waited a year or two, 
 Avould have found it out. The lad is at the 
 height of his growth at this moment ; to do him 
 justice, he'll never be so near her equal again as 
 he is to-day. From this moment he begins to 
 go down again; and she has just commenced 
 growing; that's what I object to. In a year or 
 two, she'll be driven to find it out." 
 
 " Mr. Fi'cke," said his wife, with calm exaspe- 
 ration, " if you say that to anybody but me, 
 people will think you mad." 
 
 " Very likely, my dear," said the Vicar; 
 " people have thought me mad before now. It 
 don't do me any harm ; but as for calling that 
 Providence, you know ! I'm much inclined to 
 the idea of dualism myself : I can't help thinking 
 down below has something to do with it. Half 
 the things that happen in the world look as if 
 the devil had sanctioned them, and not God." 
 
 " ]Mr. Freke," said his wife, this time with 
 more solemnity, "if you talk like that to
 
 The Marriage. 277 
 
 anybody but me, people will tliink you au 
 infidel/^ 
 
 At which the Vicar gave a short laugh. 
 
 " Yeiy likely/' he said. " People have called 
 me all sorts of names before now ; but I take off 
 my surplice before I go into the pulpit, and I 
 never have any candles on the altar, so I don't 
 see what haiTQ they can do me. Besides, there's 
 nothing infidel about it. Things may occur in 
 the world, from the clash of the opposing forces, 
 like — ^like electricity, you know," said ^Ir. Freke, 
 who was a little uncertain in his scientific illus- 
 trations ; '^ there is nothing in the Bible against 
 that. Of course she'll come out of it like a 
 queen, that girl will ; but why, why, Harriet, once 
 in a while, a pretty young creature like that — a 
 creature that could be happy — why mightn't she 
 have her happiness ? I don't say we all deserve 
 it ; but once in a way " 
 
 " Mr. Freke, you are going out of your 
 senses," said his wife. " Agnes Stanfield is only 
 the blacksmith's daughter ; and he is a gentleman 
 very well educated, and very nice, and as much 
 in love with her as a man need be. It's quite a 
 romance, on the contrary ; and if she is not happy 
 she will be the most ungrateful woman on the 
 face of the earth." 
 
 The Yicar made no special answer to this
 
 278 Agnes. 
 
 address. He only shook his liead and thrust his 
 arms up to the elbows into the pockets of his 
 long black coat^, and said^ ^'^Poor things poor 
 thing V^ as he made one little circuit round the 
 room preparatory to leaving it_, as was his custom. 
 When he was gone his wife laid down her 
 knitting and leaned back in her chair. She was 
 not a woman to give in to the lawless sentiments 
 of her husband^ but Avhen he was out of the way 
 she could abandon herself to her own thoughts ; 
 and she too said " Poor thing V in her heart, and 
 perhaps wondered — though Avith a mild feminine 
 wonder, which suffered itself no such daring ex- 
 pression as that which the clergyman, treating 
 the subject with professional boldness, felt himself 
 free to venture on — why proceedings so strangely 
 against all human likelihood of well-doing should 
 be " permitted,^^ as she said. Perhaps it was a 
 point of view peculiar to the clerical house. 
 
 But the discontent of Windholm was general, 
 though otherwise expressed. " If one could have 
 the least hope that she would make him happy !" 
 little Miss Fox said, with a sigh; and as for 
 Polly Thompson, though she was asked out to 
 tea every night for a fortnight, on the score of her 
 bridesmaid-honours, a sense that she was disap- 
 proved of was conveyed early and distinctly to 
 her mind in the first week. " She may be grand, but
 
 The Marriage. 279 
 
 she'll Ije none happy ; it ain't in reason/^ was the 
 judgment of Mrs. Roger, the baker" s wile, whose 
 opinion was held in esteem inAVindholm; ^"^and if I 
 were you, Miss Polly, I Avouldn^t say no more than 
 I could help on the subject;"" which, to be siu'e, 
 was rather hard upon the poor girl, who had ])een 
 plied with all manner of questions for two hours 
 pre^dously. It was amid this commotion of public 
 opinion that Agnes left the home which perhaps 
 she might never see again. Stanfield stood at 
 his door, looking after the carriage which con- 
 tained his daughter, with a countenance from 
 which the light seemed to have gone out, and 
 eyes which, in their dimib anguish, were more 
 and more like the eyes of Juno. It seemed to 
 him that he had bidden his child farewell for 
 ever and ever. Never on earth, scarcely even in 
 heaven, if human ties counted for anything then, 
 could she be his again. And in the meantime the 
 bride, having made acquaintance over again with 
 herself and regained her identity, was beginning 
 her first voyage, in utter confidence and fearless- 
 ness, into the unknown life.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The Wedding Tour, 
 
 OGEE TREYELYAN took liis 
 bride to Switzerland, wliere tliey 
 wandered about among tlie moun- 
 tains all tlie summer. He was very 
 mucli in love, and verymucli enchanted with the 
 love and admiration of Agnes, to Avliom, at this 
 period, he seemed the exponent of everything 
 most lovely and most marvellous in nature. Her 
 mind, it is true, was of a much higher order than 
 his to start Avith, but, after all, the advantages of 
 education count for something ; and a girl brought 
 up in Windholm in the blacksmith^s parlour, with 
 very little means of access to books, and Avith a 
 horizon which enclosed little more than the 
 village common and the fields, must have incAdt- 
 ably found a great deal unknoAvn to her in the 
 mind and recollections of any man, not a fool, 
 who had gone through a gentleman^s education ; 
 and the very elevation of Agnes^s mind by nature 
 prevented her from finding her superiority out;
 
 Tim Wtddimj Tour. ^Sl 
 
 for slie was like licr father^ destitute of cleverness, 
 and liad no pretensions to any powers of penetra- 
 tion. It never occurred to her to measure any 
 one, or compare licrsclf with others ; and Roger, 
 who had seen all these glories before, who knew 
 where to lead her to catch the most perfect com- 
 bination at every wonderful point of ^iew, and 
 who knew, besides, many things to say about these 
 points of vicAv which a woman of his own class 
 would have laughed at as hackneyed, but which 
 were new to Agnes, could not fail to appear to 
 his bride, in her ignorance, like a superior being. 
 And as her faith in him and admu'ation for his 
 gifts rose higher, his admiration for the young 
 believer rose in proportion. Then, as they had 
 plenty of money for the moment, and nobody 
 could tell what might happen before it was neces- 
 sary to retiu'u to England; and as, in the mean- 
 time, it was very important that Agnes should be 
 trained to her new position, Koger took care that 
 she should get accustomed to as much luxury of 
 living as Swiss hotels could fui'nish. He had com- 
 menced teaching her French (as much as he knew) 
 almost as soon as they crossed the Channel ; and 
 before the summer was over he got a French maid 
 for her, which was the first penalty poor Agnes had 
 to pay for her happiness. But in the early part of 
 that wonderful summer, before Mademoiselle ar-
 
 282 Agnes. 
 
 rived to remind ]Mrs. Trevelvan that she was still 
 mortal, the two wandered about together like 
 two travellers just out of Paradise. Roger^s 
 mind and powers Avere stimulated, though he 
 did not know it, by constant intercourse Avith 
 a mind fresh and pure and more lofty than any 
 he had before encountered ; and for the time, what 
 he had learned put on a semblance of life, even to 
 himself, as if it came from his own original intel- 
 ligence. Thus the light which was in Agnes^s 
 eyes, as she regarded him, threw a kind of 
 delightful confusion on the face of things, and 
 half persuaded even her young husband, as it 
 wholly persuaded herself, that the radiance was 
 within and not without. 
 
 During all this long summer there did not 
 once enter into Roger^s life that shadow which 
 pursues Englishmen all over the globe. He said 
 to himself, in the fulness of his heart, that it was 
 impossible to be bored with Agnes ; not that she 
 had a great deal to say in her own person, or was 
 amusing to speak of; but Roger had never in his 
 life before felt himself so clever, so interesting, so 
 full of sense and story and illustration, as he did 
 with this fair ignorant understanding creature, 
 hanging on his lips, drawing out of him her 
 first knowledge of the world, and of art and of 
 nature, of books and men. She drew out of him
 
 The Wedding Tour. 283 
 
 so miicli that lie never knew to be in liim^ that 
 Roger rose in his own opinion ; the light of her 
 interest and tender ciu'iosity brightened np the 
 reminiscences of his school-days^ and of his college, 
 and of all he had learned and all he had forgotten. 
 There was not a detail of his short life that Avas 
 not as interesting to Agnes as if he had been the 
 greatest hero that ever lived ; and, happily, there 
 were few things in Roger^s life which he would 
 have been ashamed to tell to his wife. As for 
 her own experiences, she had so few, that the 
 homely details which made a brief appearance 
 now and then, only amused Roger, and did not 
 wound his pride j and everything went on like a 
 romance or a faiiy tale. 
 
 To be sure, this was a state of things that could 
 not last for ever. Roger did not choose to exhibit 
 his bride at the public table, or to convey her 
 from place to place in public conveyances. He 
 chose to make his bridal tour en prince ; and as 
 they had plenty of money for the moment, and 
 desired no society, their tete-a-tete continued 
 almost uninterrupted. True, he was now and 
 then hailed by some passing acquaintance on a 
 mountain- side, which even princes could only 
 ascend on foot, or in the republican equality of 
 a glacier ; but his devoted attendance upon " my 
 wife" was generally enough to satisfy these ad-
 
 284 Agnes. 
 
 miring and surprised spectators tliat an addition 
 to the party Avas undesirable. No letters came 
 from home to distm^b the felicity of the youth- 
 ful travellers — none,, at leasts to Roger — and 
 Stanfield's letters to his daughter were not too 
 frequent, and contained nothing when he read 
 them, which annoyed her husband. Thus affaii's 
 proceeded as smoothly as possible during all the 
 summer, the sole danger to which Agnes had 
 been subjected being an introduction, in passing, 
 to some old ladies and two or three young men, 
 the first of whom stared at her very curiously, 
 though there was little time for conversation. 
 Such trifling encounters, however, were not 
 enough to arouse in Roger^s mind any alarms as 
 yet about his wife^s powers of acquitting herself 
 in society. Bvit with the waning summer this 
 idyll of existence also began to show signs of 
 ending — not that it was less agreeable or lost any 
 of its attractions — but it became necessaiy to think 
 of settling somewhere for the Avinter, which was 
 an idea that involved many arrangements foreign 
 to their present habits. The first indications of 
 this change to Agnes was the proposal of the 
 French maid, and the arrival of a box from Paris 
 containing a supply of dresses, which she re- 
 garded with incredulous amazement and a touch 
 of dismay.
 
 The Wedding Tour. 285 
 
 " It is your corbeiUe de mariage,'^ said Roger, 
 who was delighted by her surprise. " I dared 
 not haA'c offered you such a thing at Windholm; 
 but it^s all right now. I managed to bring oif 
 that old grey dress you used to wear long ago/^ 
 he went on^ laughing, " so you may be sure 
 they^ll fit. I don^t want [Mrs. Trevelyan to ex- 
 tend the fame of the dressmakers at Windholm.^' 
 
 Agnes did her best to admire her new posses- 
 sions and to giA'e due thanks for them ; but the 
 surprise was not by any means so pleasant a one 
 as Roger expeeted. "NMien she was alone she 
 even shed a tear or two over the dresses she had 
 been wearing all the summer, thinking all the 
 time that they pleased him; but, fortunately, 
 Agnes was not possessed of that unhappy suscep- 
 tibility which is wounded by the least doubt of 
 absolute perfection in all its possible arrange- 
 ments. On second thoughts, she made up her 
 mind that her husband had done the kindest 
 thing in the world in the kindest way, not 
 wounding her by immediate suggestions, but 
 leading her time to see her deficiencies a little, 
 and to awaken to a desire of mending them. This 
 incident, however, though she accounted for it 
 so satisfactorily, awakened just a suggestion of 
 inquietude in her mind. When her dresses had 
 to be renewed so entirely, might not some
 
 284 Agnes. 
 
 niii'ing and surprised spectators that an addition 
 to the party was undesirable. No letters came 
 from liome to disturb tlie felicity of the youth- 
 fid travellers — none,, at leasts to Roger — and 
 Stanfield^s letters to his daughter were not too 
 fi'equentj and contained nothing when he read 
 them^ which annoyed her husband. Thus affair's 
 proceeded as smoothly as possible dui'ing all the 
 summer, the sole danger to which Agnes had 
 been subjected being an introduction, in passing, 
 to some old ladies and two or thi'ce young men, 
 the first of whom stared at her very curiousl}', 
 though there was little time for conversation. 
 Such trifling encounters, however, were not 
 enough to arouse in Roger^s mind any alarms as 
 yet about his wife^s powers of acquitting herself 
 in society. But with the waning summer this 
 idyll of existence also began to show signs of 
 ending — not that it was less agreeable or lost any 
 of its attractions — but it became necessary to think 
 of settling somewhere for the A^inter, which was 
 an idea that involved many arrangements foreign 
 to their present habits. The first indications of 
 this change to Agnes was the proposal of the 
 French maid, and the arrival of a box from Paris 
 containing a supply of dresses, Avhich she re- 
 garded with incredulous amazement and a touch 
 of dismay.
 
 The Wedding Tour. 285 
 
 " It is your corbeille de mariagey" said Roger, 
 who was delighted by her surprise. " I dared 
 not have offered you such a thing at Windholm ; 
 but it^s all right now. I managed to bring off 
 that old grey dress you used to wear long ago/^ 
 he went on^ laughing, " so you may be sure 
 they^ll fit. I don^t want ]Mrs. Trevelyan to ex- 
 tend the fame of the dressmakers at Windholm. ^^ 
 
 Agnes did her best to admire her new posses- 
 sions and to give due thanks for them; but the 
 surprise was not by any means so pleasant a one 
 as Roger expected. ^Mien she was alone she 
 even shed a tear or two over the dresses she had 
 been wearing all the summer, thinking all the 
 time that they pleased him ; but, fortunately, 
 Agnes was not possessed of that unhappy suscep- 
 tibility which is wounded by the least doubt of 
 absolute perfection in all its possible arrange- 
 ments. On second thoughts, she made up her 
 mind that her husband had done the kindest 
 thing in the world in the kindest way, not 
 wounding her by immediate suggestions, but 
 lea^dng her time to see her deficiencies a little, 
 and to awaken to a desire of mending them. This 
 incident, however, though she accounted for it 
 so satisfactorily, awakened just a suggestion of 
 inquietude in her mind. "WTien her dresses had 
 to be renewed so entirely, might not some
 
 286 Agnes. 
 
 similar process be necessary in respect to lier 
 manners and modes of speech and of tlionglit? 
 She swallowed tlie little injiuy to lier pride con- 
 veyed in this idea^ and tiu^ned again, as her father 
 might have done, to the reason of the matter. 
 Certainly it was reasonable that with her dress 
 her general demeanour should need remodelling 
 too. And then her next thought was of an appeal 
 to Roger, in whom, notwithstanding this sugges- 
 tion, which was a little humbling to her vanity, 
 she had a profound trust, untinctured either by 
 pique or suspicion. 
 
 " I wish you could order me a set of 
 new manners as easily,^^ said Agnes, with a 
 little laugh, in which there was a touch of 
 anxiety ; " that must be a great deal more 
 important than the dresses. T can^t put off 
 my stupid ways as I can put off my old 
 gown " 
 
 " Heaven forbid \" said Roger. " I don^t want 
 any change in your ways ; on the contrary,"*^ said 
 the young man, laughing, " if you will, to oblige 
 me, always imagine yourself in the parlour at 
 Windholm and wearing your old grey gown, you 
 will be perfect, my darling ; your manners don^t 
 require any change .^^ 
 
 " Ah \" cried Agnes, who, even amid her gi'cat 
 happiness, could not but be conscious with a certain
 
 The Wedding Tour, 287 
 
 pang' tliat the parloiu' at Windliolm and tlie grey 
 gown had been left off for ever^ " but that is not 
 
 possible; and besides " here she paused a 
 
 little, not knowing Iioay to say what she was con- 
 scious of feeling, that whether for the better or 
 the worse, she, too, had made a certain progress 
 in these three months. She was changed, and 
 was conscious of the change ; and perhaps the 
 thought of liaAing to go back to recover the 
 bearing which her husband found perfect was not 
 much more consolatory to her than if he had 
 said, as she half expected, ^^You will improve in 
 time/' 
 
 " No," said young Trevelyan, more seriously, 
 " to be sure, it is not possible. I only mean 
 that you must not think any more about your 
 manners than you did then. There is a kind of 
 manner which you have, Agnes — and, in case I 
 should be partial and biassed in respect to you, 
 I may say your father has it too — not in the 
 least like a great lady, to be sure ; a kind of a 
 look of being mistress of your own place and 
 the first there, and, at the same time, a kind of 
 a look of being everybody's attendant and the 
 last there. I can't describe it," said the young 
 man — '' when a woman of the world happens 
 to have such a manner, and knows how to 
 manage it, she gets quite a reputation on that
 
 290 Agnes. 
 
 her mincl^ and make lier wortliy of himself and 
 her new station. As for Agnes herself, she was 
 quite willing, and, indeed, eager. The evenings 
 they were to spend together over their hooks — 
 the mornings they were to roam together among 
 the pictures — appeared to her eyes like the open- 
 ing ^dstas of an endless paradise. And it had 
 neA^er yet entered into her mind to douht that 
 Roger knew a hundred times more than she did, 
 and was quite equal to the charge he had 
 taken upon himself. If he had married Miss 
 Rogers, who was the haker^s daughter at Wind- 
 holm and had heen to a very good boarding- 
 school, she would have brought the young man 
 very speedily to his senses, and to a due estimate 
 of his position ; but as for Agnes, she had no opi- 
 nion whatever of herself, and so long as her sense 
 of right and ^vi'ong was not touched, nor her 
 exquisite natural taste and instinct of fitness in- 
 terfered mth, she was the most docile pupil in 
 the world. 
 
 Thus commenced the most serious and event- 
 ful period of these two young lives. They were 
 left alone in their ignorance to make the best of 
 it — the reins being chiefly in Roger^s hand, who 
 had undertaken so confidently to make their six 
 months in Florence not merely a pleasant pause, 
 but a beautiful preface and course of prej)ara-
 
 The Wedding Tour. 291 
 
 tion for life. A man more apt to be affected 
 by cbance influences did not exist than tbe young: 
 man wLo thus bound himself to the special line 
 of action which his present thoughts considered 
 necessary. ^' Of coiu'se, I do not mean that we are 
 never to go into society/^ he said^ as he discussed 
 his plans. And as for Agnes^ though she w-as a 
 little nervous^ she had no desire to avoid society. 
 She had^ on the contrary, a settled idea in her 
 head, that society, in Roger^s sense of the word,, 
 was in reality that brilliant, beautiful society 
 which most young people of any brains look for 
 eagerly but vainly on their introduction to the 
 world. Agnes expected that everybody she en- 
 coimtered would be capable of brilliant talk, of 
 wit and wisdom, equal to the books of which 
 dui'ing the last summer she had read more than 
 ever before in her life. The dull and stupid 
 gossip to which she had listened at Windholm 
 seemed to her to belong entirely to that atmo- 
 sphere in which her father and herself had got 
 lost, somehow, out of their natural sphere. But 
 now the beautiful and seemly were to be the rule 
 and order of her life. She expected to meet ^vith 
 nothing less than that exquisite consideration for 
 others, that power of divining elevated sentiment, 
 and calling forth the real treasures of the mind 
 and spirit, which was surely what social intercourse 
 u 2
 
 292 Agnes. 
 
 meant in its highest development. Thus she 
 Avent forAvarcl serenely to her first contact with 
 such people of her husband^s acquaintance as were 
 to be found in Florence. In such a refined and 
 elevated sphere, Agnes felt confident that her 
 little shortcomings would be gently judged. 
 She had no more conception of refined im- 
 pertinence utterly outdoing any attempt ever 
 made in that Avay Ijy the humble Windholm 
 community, than of any other wicked thing 
 in that little, amusing, equivocal Anglo-Italian 
 world.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The First Stejj. 
 
 OGER TREYELYAN and liis wife 
 were in the Pitti Gallery when the 
 first enconnter occnrred with the 
 outside world. They were going 
 over the pictures in a leisurely way, in all the 
 ease of having six months before them. Agnes, 
 like most uncultivated people, was not quite sure 
 what to think about the pictui'es. Notwith- 
 standing the fine perceptions of her mind, her 
 eyes were so entirely uneducated that tliis ncAV 
 delight was not nearly so gi'eat a delight as 
 might have been supposed. The first efiect pro- 
 duced upon her by the new world of art was, 
 indeed, to make her feel very stupid, and con- 
 fused, and shaken in her ideas of beauty, as 
 she passed from one to another of those little 
 man^llous squares of canvas which Roger in- 
 formed her were among the most celebrated in 
 the world. Agnes grew more and more silent
 
 294 Agnes. 
 
 and puzzled. She felt sure tlie fault must lie 
 in herself, but that did not soften the pang of 
 her disappointment; for^ to be siu-e^ she had 
 expected, as was natiu'al, that, to recognise and 
 appreciate the works of genius, it was only 
 necessary to look at them. She was so silent 
 and so puzzled, that even Roger, who in his 
 heart did not care a straw for the pictures, but 
 who was aware what it was right to say about 
 them, was somewhat disappointed too, and began 
 to entertain a half suspicion, not disagreeable to 
 his mind, that, after all, Agnes was not so " supe- 
 riors^ as he had supposed, even in the natural 
 qualities of the mind which he proposed to form. 
 They had come at length, however, to that 
 sombre room in which the picture of the " Visita- 
 tion''s occupies the central place ; and as Agnes 
 stood and looked at it, feeling very tired in body 
 and confused in mind, a sudden gleam of light at 
 last came out of the picture into her face. She 
 stood, leaning heavily on Roger^s arm, with her 
 eyes fixed wistfully upon it, her lips apart a 
 little, and a certain startled sudden perception 
 in her face. It did not occur to her at that 
 moment that she was looking at a fine picture ; 
 it only came into her mind suddenly, like a 
 flash of lightning, that she was a young wife, 
 probably destined to stand in need of all the
 
 The First Step. 295 
 
 tender sympatliies of womankind^ and tliat there 
 was no woman in the world likely to accost her 
 with the look of that Elizabeth. Such was the 
 first impression drawn by Agnes from the new 
 perplexing Art^ to which she had been introduced 
 with so little preparation. Any loftier meaning 
 that there might be in the scene escaped her for 
 the moment. She stood in a trance of interest 
 regarding the divine mystery of nature which 
 linked these two women; Mary^ with her secret 
 in her heart — Elizabeth,, with the look that 
 divined^ and asked^ and replied^ all in a moment. 
 The young spectator^ too^ might have her secret^ 
 but for her there was no Elizabeth. Thus Agnes 
 stood looking at them^ without thought of any- 
 thing more di^dne^ with a tender en^y, as at two 
 women. For her^ too^ that sacred mysterious 
 hour of consciousness might arise^ but she had 
 neither mother nor friend to read it in her eyes. 
 This was the thought that made her rapt coun- 
 tenance shine ; but at that moment the room filled 
 suddenly with a rustle of silks^ and a breath of 
 perfumC;, and an English voice. The voice said — 
 
 "This way^my dear; here is the picture I wanted 
 you to see — '^ The Visitation/ by Albertinelli. I 
 believe it is considered his best work. Come to 
 this side^ this is the best light.^^ 
 
 " Ah ! mamma/-' said another voice^ " how
 
 296 Agnes. 
 
 can you ? You know I detest that debased 
 cinque- cento taste ; it looks precisely like one oi' 
 the windows in Brussels, only the distance is 
 green instead of blue ; and just the kind of 
 ordinary superficial sentiment that suits the 
 vulgar taste /^ 
 
 Agnes shrank back involuntarily before this 
 interruption, and, without knowing it, brought 
 herself and her husband, by that movement, in 
 fidl view of the new party, who regarded them 
 with a frank and straightforward " British stare/^ 
 But this stare, and the new interest awakened 
 by it, drove the " Visitation'^ out of everybody's 
 head. 
 
 ^^ Trevelyan, by Jove !" cried one of the male 
 attendants of the new comers. 
 
 And before Agnes could recall her thoughts, 
 her husband had been shaken hands with all 
 round with acclamations. In the confusion of 
 her ideas, the young wife was not aware of the 
 look of consternation which came upon her own 
 face as she felt herself thus standing upon the 
 threshold of the new world. But even at that 
 moment Agnes caught a look from the eyes of 
 the elder lady, which was about as difierent as 
 could be imagined from the look of Elizabeth — 
 a look of inquiry, not to say suspicion ; and 
 then the poor girl felt herself dissolving some-
 
 The First Step. 297 
 
 how into tlie air, till she was suddenly recalled 
 to herself by Roger^s voice. 
 
 " I am very glad to have an opportunity of 
 presenting my wife to you^ Lady Charlton/^ said 
 Roger. " We have only been in Florence a few 
 days. Agnes, Lady Charlton, one of our neigh- 
 bours at home. How lucky that we should 
 have met here !" 
 
 " Quite extraordinary !" said Lady Charlton ; 
 and she made Agnes a magnificent curtsy, to 
 which the young wife responded by a timid bow 
 and the wistful little momentary smile which 
 was habitual to her when she met any one for 
 the first time — a smile which said so plainly, 
 " You are better than I am ; be good to me^^ — 
 that few people hitherto had been quite able to 
 resist it. The new acquaintance, howcA^er, 
 showed no symptoms of being mollified. She 
 said — 
 
 " I am sure I am charmed to make Mrs. 
 Trevelyan^s acquaintance. How very odOj, 
 Lottie, that we should have heard from 
 Cornwall so lately, and nobody mentioned 
 the marriage ! How fortunate you are in 
 being able to keep it all snug and to your- 
 self !^^ 
 
 " Oh, that is all over, long ago,'' said Roger. 
 " I suppose everybody has forgotten us by this
 
 298 Agnes. 
 
 time. We are at Panizzi's^ on tlie Lung' Arno, 
 and I hope yon will come and see ns/^ 
 
 " I shall do myself the pleasure of calling 
 on Mrs. Trevelyan/-' said Lady Charlton^ Avith 
 dignity. ^^ We are at Panizzi^s too. I Avant 
 my daughter to admire the Albertinelli. Now, 
 Lottie, stand here ; this is the best light.''^ 
 
 " Then we shall look for you shortly/^ said 
 Roger, with the best grace he could muster, and 
 he nodded to Jack Charlton, who, for his part, 
 took off his hat with an air of profound respect 
 to his friend's new and pretty wife. 
 
 Agnes was so tired, and so startled by this 
 unexpected event, that this move was the only 
 thing that saved her from a catastrophe and 
 faint; for the heavy atmosphere of the gallery, 
 the stifling air produced by the braziers, which 
 had already been placed there, the unusual exer- 
 tion both of mind and body, and finally Lady 
 Charlton, with her perfume and her large party, 
 taking up all the air that remained in the room, 
 had altogether had an overwhelming effect upon 
 the young creature fresh from Swiss air and 
 liberty. Rosrer was much alarmed when he 
 found that she could scarcely speak as he led her 
 away — first alarmed, and then, as was natural, 
 puzzled and ready to be angry. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that it is Lady
 
 The First Step. ' 299 
 
 Charlton ^vlio lias done tliis ?^^ lie said,, with 
 hasty chagrin and vexation^ and hurried her 
 downstaii's at a pace which made matters worse. 
 " Put down your veil^ at least/^ said the young 
 husband. " Good lieaA-ens, Agnes ! don^t let 
 people imagine that you are frightened by the 
 mere appearance of a woman you don^t know.^^ 
 
 Poor Agnes felt the steps flying from under 
 her; but at last there was some air to be had^ 
 and she managed to retain her senses and con- 
 sciousness till she reached the welcome shelter of 
 the little brougham which awaited them. Then 
 after a moment^ when she had steadied a little, 
 she made her defence. 
 
 " I was not frightened/^ she said ; " it was the 
 want of aii% in the first place, and the fatigue ; 
 and then the picture '' 
 
 " What of the pictui'e ? I did not think you 
 at all excited by the pictures/^ said Roger, who 
 was rather in the mood for scolding, " as some 
 people are.^^ He was extremely fond of his wife, and 
 alarmed by her paleness, but he was only human, 
 and he could not refrain from giving her this little 
 prick with his spear in passing. Greater self-denial 
 would have been impossible to flesh and blood. 
 
 " No,''"' said Agnes ; " only it made me feel 
 somehow how aIo7ie I am ; that was all.^^ 
 
 " How alone you are ! bv Jove,'''' said Roger,
 
 300 Ag7ies. 
 
 growing rather red^ " that is a very poor com-^ 
 pliment to me." 
 
 ^' Hiish^ you know I didn't mean that — I 
 mean^ I have not a woman in the world be- 
 longing to me/' said Agnes — ^' mother, nor 
 sister — nor friend scarcely/' and the young wife 
 sighed again, and thought of the Elizabeth, 
 totally unaware that Roger breathed an internal 
 " Heaven be praised \" as he sat by her side. 
 
 " Oh, friends are not difficult to pick up," he 
 said, lightly. " Only, Agnes, for heaven's sake 
 don't look so scared when I introduce any one to 
 you. You asked me about your manners the 
 other day. There is nothing in the least wrong 
 with your manners ; but, whatever you do, don't 
 look frightened. That is the only tiling I ask of 
 you. The Charltons are neighbours, and it 
 would be lucky if you took to each other ; but I 
 don't mean to dictate to you who you are to 
 like ; only just this one thing — don't, I beseech, 
 whatever happens, put on that scared look." 
 
 " Did I look scared ? I did not know/' said 
 Agnes, with a sudden blush ; " it was with being 
 so tired, I suppose." 
 
 " I hope so/' said her husband. " You must 
 not be tired another time. And as for the pic- 
 ture, it is not what one would call a great 
 picture," he continued, returning to the process.
 
 The First Step. 301 
 
 •of forming her mind ; " it is a good specimen of 
 the master, no donbt, bnt he is not of the first 
 rank. It is better not to be enthusiastic at all 
 than to have an enthusiasm badly placed/^ Roger 
 added, with a little laugh. He was half in jest, 
 to be sure, in this latter observation, but, at the 
 same time, he was whole in earnest. He was not 
 a connoisseiu', nor learned in the fine arts in his 
 own person, but he was sufficiently got up on the 
 subject to be aware that one of the most general 
 sjTnptoms of ignorance is enthusiasm for the 
 wrong thing, and against this it was necessar}^ to 
 guard his pupil without delay. 
 
 This little conversation Avas over before they 
 reached the hotel. As for Agnes, she was not 
 affronted, as many young wives in her position 
 Avould have been. She had managed to make the 
 transition from love-making to marriage under the 
 most auspicious circumstances during the summer, 
 and had already accustomed herself to that conjugal 
 criticism which at the first shock is sufficiently 
 disenchanting to every young girl, who marries 
 out of a fantastic, youthful paradise into a 
 real, everyday world. She had got over it, as it 
 is comparatively easy to do, when there is real 
 love at the bottom ; and ha^dng, like her father, 
 a great calm of nature which it was difficult to 
 ruffle, Roger^s objections to her paleness and
 
 302 Agnes. 
 
 momentary want of sympathy did not rouse lier to 
 arms instantly^ as it might have done in some cases. 
 And to tell tlie truths tliongh a little startled by 
 her first aspect^ Agnes was not in the least afraid 
 of Lady Charlton. Thus they drove back to their 
 hotel without the least breach of the peace, and 
 resumed their studies in the evening as if nothing- 
 had happened. But, nevertheless, something had 
 happened. Roger was distracted from his French 
 conversation (in which, notwithstanding his 
 efforts on Agnes^s behalf, he was himself far from 
 being strong) without knowing it, by the fact 
 that Jack Charlton was in the house, who knew 
 everybody he himself knew, and, no doubt, could 
 tell him what people were saying at home about 
 the marriage — Avhich Roger could not help sup- 
 posing must possess a certain interest, at least, for 
 everybody in the county. Lady Charlton had 
 looked a little impertinent, and so had her 
 daughter, and, on the whole, the young husband 
 could not help feeling that this accident had dis- 
 turbed the honeymoon tranquillity and absorption 
 of his life. 
 
 In fact, l)efore the evening was over, Roger 
 found an opportunity to stray off into the more 
 public regions of the hotel in search of his old 
 friend. He said — " Td like to have a little talk 
 with Jack Charlton; he and I used to be great
 
 The First Stej), 803 
 
 friends. Fll leave you for half an honr to your 
 novels Agnes /^ "When lie "svas gone, lioweyer, it 
 was not to tlie novel that Agnes addressed her- 
 self. Novels groTV less interesting when one is 
 in the full tide of one^s own historj^, and subject 
 to experiences more exciting than anything in 
 fiction. The young wife let the book fall when 
 Roger left her, and took to thinking. It was 
 impossible, even had she possessed the temper of 
 an angel, for Agnes to suppose that she had met 
 with a gracious reception from her husband^s old 
 friend, and involuntarily, before she was aware of 
 it, Mrs. Freke^s warnings and her own thoughts 
 thereupon returned to her mind. "What if she 
 were about to find out for herself all the disad- 
 vantages of an unequal marriage — to encounter 
 women not gracious and sympathetic, like the 
 ladies of her imagination, but hard and un- 
 friendly, who would criticise and see through her, 
 and convict her as an impostor ? All this gleamed 
 like a Adsion of affright across her mind; but 
 strangely enough, Agnes was not dismayed by it, 
 as she had been after that conversation with 
 Mrs. Freke. She was, so far, more foolish than 
 she had been then, that her youthful confidence 
 in love was stronger than ever. She smiled in 
 her heart as she thought how little it could 
 matter to Roger, who loved her, what Ladv
 
 304 Agnes. 
 
 Charlton or anybody said. She herself would 
 be glad to please his friends for his sake ; but 
 having him^ the rest of the world was secondary 
 and unimportant to Agnes. With this thought 
 she dismissed what little inquietude she had, and 
 went back with a smile to her novel, and laughed 
 at Roger^s guilty face, when he returned, not in 
 half an hour, but in an hour and a half. For his 
 part, he was so glad to find that his al)sence had 
 not vexed her, that the clouds of his inquietude 
 passed at least from his face ; and so there came 
 a peaceful and pleasant close to the evening, 
 which they might well have kept as a fast and 
 vigil, had they known Avhat consequences it was to 
 produce. 
 
 These consequences, hoAVCver, were not in the 
 least tragic to start with, nor was there any con- 
 spiracy commenced against the peace of the 
 young wife or the faithfulness of the husband, as 
 sometimes occurs, at least in books. No such 
 intentions Avere in the mind of Lady Charlton or 
 her daughter, as they held a consultation on the 
 vsubject over the fire. They were seated there 
 both of them cozily enough, with the ordinary 
 details of work and books, and pretty trifles on 
 the table, which are necessary to the comfort of 
 Englishwomen in general. Miss Charlton, who 
 was a few years older than Agnes, had, like
 
 The First Step. 305 
 
 Agnes, a novel in lier hand ; but my lady, for her 
 part, had passed the age when novels are inte- 
 resting. She was warming her slippered feet at 
 the bright wood fire, and making herself com- 
 fortable ; and naturally, unoccupied as she was, 
 interrupting from time to time her daughter's 
 enjoyment of her book. 
 
 " I don't quite know what to do, Lottie,^' said 
 Lady Charlton, with a little contraction on her 
 forehead; ^^ Roger Trevelyan was always an honest 
 boy. He never would have dared to introduce 
 his wife to me as he did, unless it had been all 
 right. He never would attempt to take me in, 
 I am sure — and yet Beatrice did tell you he was 
 in some scrape or other, you say ? I do wish 
 you would put down that ridiculous novel a little, 
 and attend to me." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, this moment," said Miss 
 Charlton, dutifully; and she glanced over the 
 next page, and then threw her book on the table. 
 " What queer pictures these sort of people give 
 of society !" she said, laughing. '' Such guys we 
 must all appear outside, if anybody believes them. 
 I think one ought to take to writing novels one's- 
 self, to set these ridiculous creatures right." 
 
 " I beg you won't do anything of the sort," 
 said Lady Charlton, with asperity, " and ruin all 
 your prospects. Please to give me your attention, 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 Agnes. 
 
 Lottie. I was speaking of the Trevelyans. I 
 daresay Roger has been very foolish, but I canH 
 help feeling a conviction that he never would 
 have tried to deceive me, and that it must be all 
 right." 
 
 " Probably, mamma/^ said Miss Charlton. 
 
 " Probably, mamma !" echoed her mother. " I 
 wish you would take the trouble to show a little 
 interest in what I am saying.'^ 
 
 " You know I never could bear gossip," said 
 Miss Lottie. '^ Of course it^s all right. Roger 
 Trevelyan is much too great a goose to take any- 
 body in ; and as for the little girl, she looked 
 pretty, I thought — pretty, but out of her mind 
 with fright or something. It would be fun to 
 hear Roger coaching her how to behave." 
 
 " I wish you would not use such words," said 
 Lady Charlton. " I don't think Roger himself 
 knows very well how to behave. Beatrice is 
 dreadfully manieree, and Sir Roger is something 
 too frightful to think of. Besides, it is not in 
 the nature of things that a man could teach a 
 woman how to conduct herself in society. I 
 have seen clever women out of the lower classes 
 who picked it up wonderfully well ; but it is quite 
 ridiculous to think of getting any good in that 
 way from a man." 
 
 " Well," said Lottie, laughing, " if she is not
 
 The First Step. 307 
 
 vulgar or stupid, it would be great fun to take 
 her up and coach her one^s-self/^ 
 
 " Lottie_, I desire you will do nothing of the 
 sort/^ said Lady Charlton, with natural irrita- 
 tion. " I can^t imagine what next you wiR 
 suggest. I think I will call to-morrow, as I 
 promised Roger; perhaps Jack may find out 
 something about them from some of the men he 
 is always picking up, and it will be easy to dis- 
 cover, when we begin to talk, what sort of people 
 she belongs to. Only, donH set up one of your 
 ridiculous friendships, as you are so fond of doing ; 
 I cannot permit that.^^ 
 
 " Friendship for a little bit of a girl who ad- 
 mires a cinque cento picture, and is frightened 
 for you /" said Miss Lottie, incautiously, with the 
 least possible emphasis. '^ I hope I have not quite 
 come to that.^^ 
 
 '^ You might at least speak with civility,^^ said 
 Lady Charlton. " It is very little help I can 
 get from a consultation with you. If she was 
 frightened, poor thing, it was not wonderful — 
 a girl belonging to the lower classes of society 
 suddenly brought into contact with a person of 
 my position. It is the only thing that prepos- 
 sesses me in her favour,''^ said my lady, poking 
 the fire, and approaching closer her velvet slipper, 
 to which Miss Charlton only replied by a laugh ;
 
 308 Agnes. 
 
 and the conversation ended by the younger lady- 
 resuming her novel,, and the elder one — for the 
 Tramontana was blowing outside — drawing nearer 
 to the cheerful fire. These were not the ladies 
 of Agnes^s imagination — which meant so many 
 feminine versions of the early knights of Arthur^ 
 before falsehood made its appearance at the Round 
 Table. Miss Charlton knew a great deal more 
 about the Round Table than Agnes did^ and 
 could have discussed it in aU its bearings, artis- 
 tical and philosophic ; but she was much too ex- 
 perienced a woman to believe in the existence of 
 any such piece of ideal furniture in the everyday 
 world. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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